


House Arrest

by bigblueboxat221b



Series: Free Will [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Cooking, Locked In, M/M, Mycroft IS the British Government, Mycroft-centric, sex of various types
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-29
Updated: 2018-03-01
Packaged: 2019-02-23 12:30:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 29,740
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13190127
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bigblueboxat221b/pseuds/bigblueboxat221b
Summary: For his own safety, Mycroft is confined to his own home until this particular threat is neutralised. He's resigned himself to an indeterminate period of solitude, until Anthea arrives with an unplanned housemate.





	1. Chapter 1

Mycroft’s eyes searched Anthea’s for any sign she was holding back information. When he could see she was not, he sighed.

“Do it,” he said tersely. She nodded and strode out of his office, already tapping on her Blackberry. Mycroft retrieved his personal belongings and followed her – there was nothing else he needed to take. His absence could be a few hours or months, but contingencies were always planned for, and his duties would be reassigned probably before he reached his home. The lift took him down to the basement, where his driver waited. Peters drove carefully, as always, and it was not long before they arrived at Mycroft’s house, driving directly into the concealed underground entrance.

“Thank you Peters.” Mycroft murmured. He wanted to say a farewell of sorts, but it was better if Peters did not know Mycroft would be absent for this indeterminate period of time. The very reason his drivers rotated was so none of them would be a reliable source of information about him; trained though they were, the brutalities of an experience torturer could often extract useful information from the strongest victim.

With this utterly depressing fact in mind, Mycroft smiled tightly at his driver and let himself into the private lift. The biometric security confirmed his identity and he rode up in silence. Usually the quietly efficient ride soothed him but today he felt…lonely. When the door opened into the entrance nook beside the kitchen, Mycroft stared at the pristine surfaces for so long the doors began to close before he’d stepped out. He flung out an arm and stepped into the entrance, discarding his coat and umbrella as usual. Today felt different. He had no idea how long it would be before he would be using these items again – given the threat, it might be the months that he had considered as the worst case scenario. Restless, Mycroft wandered through the kitchen, running one hand along the countertops. Randomly opening drawers, he saw cooking utensils, crockery and cutlery he had never used. Another cabinet held an array of cookbooks. Perhaps he would teach himself to cook. It couldn’t be that hard; it was just chemistry, after all. The idea held his attention for only a moment, the cold rush of reality enveloping him with icy air from the fridge. It was full, probably Anthea’s doing. Looking at the contents, which was mainly pre-packaged meals with some fruits and vegetables, Mycroft made a mental note to send her a list for the next time. The last thing he needed was to be eating the same thing over and over.

Before he could think about the other factors that might influence the grocery list, Mycroft closed the door of the fridge. With nothing to capture his attention, he suddenly felt very tired. Trudging up the stairs, Mycroft decided on an early night. It was pushing midnight, but it was early by his standards. He could think about how to fill his time tomorrow. On autopilot, Mycroft undressed, placing each item carefully in its allocated space and donning his pyjamas. Ablutions complete, he climbed into his large bed, fixing the covers before staring at the ceiling. The swirl of thoughts was unrelenting. It had been so long since he had taken more than a few days off work – how would he fill the time? Mycroft was realistic enough to know there were enough capable people to take over his portfolio, though not with the same flair; the point being, he was hardly irreplaceable. His worry was for himself. The times he had taken time off it had been for family events, and his time had not been his own. Now, he would be literally a prisoner in his own home with no set schedule. Once again he cursed his brother’s reckless ways. This nasty business with the Australians would not have blown up so badly if Sherlock had not taunted the thieves on their own ground; now he and John had been taken to a secure location and Mycroft was holed up here until the threat could be neutralised. Mycroft was fine with being on his own; it was the lack of structured time that fed his anxiety.

An idea came to him, and he swept the covers back, sliding bare feet into his slippers before padding into his study. Mycroft took a piece of cardstock from his desk, uncapped his fountain pen, and began to write. An hour later, he sat back, pleased. The day had been divided into half hour timeslots, each of which he had dedicated to a task. His day, from 6am to 11pm, had been scheduled. Just looking at it made him feel less out of control, and he vowed to follow it, beginning the next day. Mycroft made sure to set the alarm on his phone when he arrived back in his bedroom. This time when he lay down, sleep came far more easily.

+++

The next morning, Mycroft’s day was progressing as planned. He had risen at 6am and run for 50 minutes before showering, dressing, and making himself breakfast. He was just browsing his bookshelf (8am-9am, refreshing his knowledge of the intricacies of the Russian language by reading Anna Karenina in its native language) when the light flashed to indicate someone was entering the lift at the garage level. Mycroft frowned. Only a handful of people had the clearance to do so, and only one of those would arrive without first calling. Placing his bookmark, Mycroft walked into the kitchen to wait for the lift. When it opened, Mycroft opened his mouth to greet Anthea, but he found himself robbed of speech. Anthea was in the lift, but she was accompanied by a man bearing the unconscious figure of Greg Lestrade and an overnight bag.

“Would you explain this?” Mycroft asked in a way that did not allow for any other response than, ‘yes.’

“The threat had been expanded to include known close business associates of Sherlock.” Anthea summarised. “Detective Inspector Lestrade faces the same threat level as you, your brother and Doctor Watson. As such, he was picked up and brought to the nearest available safe house.”

“My home is not a safe house!” Mycroft snapped.

“We have no other secure facility with space.” Anthea replied. She stared at him, confident she was right and waiting for him to accept it. Grinding his teeth in frustration, Mycroft had to admit she had a point. They had had a slew of people requiring protection lately, and this would stretch them to the limit.

At least it’s not a stranger, Mycroft consoled himself. “Put him upstairs in the guest bedroom.” Mycroft instructed Treadwell grudgingly. To Anthea he said, “I will email you a list of grocery items we will require. I assume a bag of personal belongings for the Detective Inspector will be forthcoming.”

She nodded. “A change of clothes and basic toiletries are in the bag.”

Mycroft acknowledged her with a curt nod and turned to go upstairs. Passing Treadwell on the stairs, Mycroft ignored the man, feeling bad for it but too irritated to be civil. He made directly for his study, taking another sheet of cardstock and penning a note for Greg.

 

_Detective Inspector,_

_Do not panic. You are safe. You have been brought to my private residence for your own safety. There is a private bathroom off this bedroom, both of which are yours for the duration of your stay. Please use anything you might find, and come downstairs to find me. I will answer any of your questions as truthfully as I am able._

_Yours sincerely,_

_Mycroft Holmes_

 

Mycroft took the note into the guest room and propped it on the bedside table. He ignored Greg as much as possible, though the soft snoring noises he was making were quite frankly adorable. Stepping away from the bed, Mycroft took a deep breath, belatedly registering his racing heart. He walked down the stairs, found his copy of Anna Karenina, and resolutely began to read about 19th century Russia.

+++

It was a rare day when Mycroft became so lost in his task that he did not register his surroundings. Today, in the quiet of his home, with nothing to do but read for his scheduled hour, he gladly lost himself in the trials of Anna and Alexei, not even pausing to drink the tea he had made earlier. When a voice sounded in the doorway, Mycroft jumped, slamming his book closed and jumping to his feet.

“Mycroft.” Greg looked exhausted and confused, his eyes still blurry from the sedative he’d been given.

“You should sit.” Mycroft told him, watching him weave a little. One hand clutched the note Mycroft had written. He stepped unsteadily into the room, sinking into the nearest settee. “Can I get you anything?”

“Answers would be good,” Greg said, his voice hoarse.

“Why don’t we begin with tea.” Mycroft suggested. Greg did not protest, so Mycroft collected his abandoned cup and left him sitting quietly as he set up another tea tray. When the pot was warm and the tea steeping, Mycroft carried it into the sitting room. Greg sat with his eyes closed, looking drawn and somehow smaller than usual. Taking the moment to observe, Mycroft noticed he had removed his tie and jacket, though his shirt was still buttoned to near the top. Making a mental note to check with Anthea about Greg’s personal items, he began to pour the tea, placing the first cup before Greg.

“Thank you,” Greg murmured, opening his eyes. They were bloodshot and sore looking, but he looked briefly at Mycroft before sluggishly focussing on his tea. His hands reached for the milk, shaking a little before pulling back, hands wringing together as though trying to rub some feeling into them.

“May I?” Mycroft asked. Greg nodded, his face relieved. “Milk, one sugar,” he said.

Mycroft had to restrain himself from replying, “I know.” Instead he said nothing, doctoring Greg’s tea as requested.

“Ta.” Greg said, accepting the not-quite full cup, a faint smile crossing his face. Mycroft surmised he understood why the cup was not full, allowing his shaking hands to not spill the hot liquid. Mycroft composed his own cup and sat opposite Greg, preparing himself for the inevitable rage to come forth.

“Perhaps you could tell me why I’m here.” Greg asked quietly after sipping at his tea. He was very calm, which made Mycroft pause and adjust his plan for replying.

“Tasman.” Mycroft said simply. He drank from his own tea, watching Greg’s expression change as he processed the information. After a few moments, Mycroft elaborated. “He was not pleased with Sherlock and decided to expand his dislike to several of Sherlock’s associates – namely John Watson, you and me. My people are working to neutralise the threat, but it will take some time. This is the safest place for you until we know they are no longer capable of carrying out their intentions.”

“Sherlock and John are safe?” Greg asked. Mycroft nodded. “And you and I are stuck here until Tasman’s crew are found.” Another nod. “And you don’t know for how long.”

“I apologise for the manner in which you were approached.” Mycroft said, though he wasn’t sure of the details. Seeing him brought in unconscious had not been pleasant, and he had composed an email to those employees questioning their methods. He would send it during his later scheduled internet time.

“Right.” Greg replied, though his voice was still rough. He put his cup down, rattling slightly against the saucer; his hands were still not entirely steady. He passed one of them over his eyes now, the fatigue still evident on his face. “Look, I can’t really talk about this now. I need…I assume someone is going to my flat to break in and collect some of my stuff?”

“Yes.” Mycroft admitted without embarrassment. “Would you like to compose a list of items?”

“Maybe tomorrow. They’ll get some today. I’ll have to see…” he drifted off before shaking himself and making an effort to focus on Mycroft. “I just…can I have some ibuprofen? I think I need to sleep more.”

“Of course.” Mycroft replied immediately. “The medical supplies are above the sink in the kitchen and in each bathroom. Please consider this your residence while you are here and use anything you require.” He stood up with Greg, wondering if he would be offended if Mycroft followed him up the stairs.

“Yeah…could you grab that for me?” Greg gave a weak smile. “You could follow me up the stairs too. Seems a long way from here.”

“Just a moment,” Mycroft replied, taking the tea tray into the kitchen, collecting the ibuprofen and a glass of water before returning to Greg. They walked slowly together through the house, Mycroft keeping pace with Greg. The stairs were a slow and steady affair, and when they reached the top Mycroft handed him the drugs and water. “My suite is at the end of the hall,” Mycroft told him. “Please let me know if you need anything.” Greg nodded absently, walking carefully into the guest suite.

As the door closed, Mycroft sighed. He made his way along the hall to the study, where he sat at the desk, staring at his schedule. He had included a floating period of time to speak to Greg; now that it was done, he could return to his plan. As much as the idea of a plan made him more comfortable, when he reached for his laptop (this half hour was dedicated to clearing his inbox and sending emails), Greg’s face rose in his mind, clouding his mental clarity and vision. He looked tired and confused, which made him appear diminished, somehow. In Mycroft’s mind, Gregory Lestrade was a dominant force; he usually exuded an easy confidence in his capabilities, as befit an experienced Detective Inspector. Mycroft hoped Greg would recover quickly from the effects of the drug (he really must send that email). This living arrangement could be exceptionally awkward, and an extended recovery from a non-consensual drug administration would only exacerbate it. Without thinking about it, Mycroft also hoped that Greg felt better because he wanted him to feel better. Caring. The concept rose in his mind and Mycroft physically recoiled as his uncle’s voice sounded in his ears.

_“Caring is not an advantage, Mycroft! Leaders do not **care** , they lead.”_

He shuddered, locking the man in his mind-dungeon again where he belonged. Determinedly, Mycroft pulled his mind away from the welfare of Gregory Lestrade. There was work to do, a schedule to keep. His focus would help to keep him safe.


	2. Chapter 2

Several hours later, Mycroft was sitting at the bench in his kitchen, contemplating the pre-packaged meal he had just warmed. It didn’t appeal to him in the slightest, but he knew he needed to eat something, having forsaken food in favour of keeping to the schedule today. He really must add mealtimes to tomorrow’s plan, he thought as he poked at what might once have be a tomato. Another task for tomorrow: making time to learn to cook something. More inspired by that idea than the meal in front of him, Mycroft stood and selected a cookbook at random. Settling down again, he flipped it open, staring at the recipes. Did he have any of the ingredients for this? Mycroft flipped until he settled on a frittata. Alright. A simple enough place to begin. Reading the list of ingredients, Mycroft opened the fridge, searching for the items. Eggs, milk, mushrooms, herbs, cheese. He found everything he would need, and an odd sense of success washed lightly over him. Tomorrow, then was the day for a frittata. Smiling to himself at his plan, Mycroft closed the fridge and sat down once again, regarding his meal.

“Please tell me you’re not going to eat that.” Greg’s voice sounded from the doorway. This time Mycroft had sensed his presence in the doorway. It avoided the reactive jump at the sound of Greg’s voice, at least. He looked at Greg, made an assessment of his physical and mental state. Mid-afternoon. Six hours sleep. Eyes clearer, more focussed, though still a little bloodshot. Expression amused but still fatigued. Dressed in grey jeans and a black t shirt, hair damp, the smell of shower gel. “Good afternoon.” Mycroft greeted him. “Did you sleep well?”

“Yes, thanks.” Greg was far more relaxed than when Mycroft had seen him earlier. “Sorry about before, I was all woozy and…” he shook his head.

“Once again I must apologise for the excessive use of force involved.” Mycroft said. “I have severely reprimanded those involved.”

“Yeah, not my best morning ever,” replied Greg, but the words were clear, the tone dry. Mycroft relaxed a little.

“To answer your earlier question, I had been contemplating eating this,” Mycroft admitted. “It is not particularly appealing, however.”

“You must have some real food…bloody hell.” Greg started, the curse flying out of his mouth as he saw the contents of Mycroft’s fridge – most of the shelves stacked with identical premade meals like the one Mycroft was facing. “Don’t you cook at all?” Greg asked in amazement. He turned to face Mycroft.

“Most of my meals are taken either at my office, my club or as social events. I am not often home at an appropriate time to cook.”

Greg nodded, raising his eyebrow but accepting the comments. “Well let’s see…you’ve got eggs, some cheese, milk, ham, veggies.” He grinned at Mycroft. “Fancy an omelette?”

“Err, certainly,” Mycroft replied, feeling a flush work up his face as he admitted, “I’m not precisely experienced making omelettes.”

Greg gave him a mock stern look. “Be honest with me, Mycroft. Have you ever cooked an omelette?”

“No,” Mycroft admitted.

“Okay. Do you want to watch or work with me?” Greg asked easily. When Mycroft blinked at him in surprise, Greg chuckled. “Why don’t you watch, then, and we can make another one tomorrow morning. Mushrooms, cheese, onions okay with you?”

Mycroft nodded mutely. It wasn’t until Greg had placed a pile of ingredients on the bench and was rummaging for equipment, whistling tunelessly, that Mycroft blurted out, “You’re not angry.”

“Should I be?” Greg asked lightly, setting out a chopping board and frying-pan. When his question went unanswered, he stopped, turning to look at Mycroft. The expression on his face must have been serious because Greg’s face lost its smile and he turned fully, leaning on the bench as he spoke again. “Should I be?” The question was far more serious this time.

“I would have certainly expected it,” Mycroft replied. He stopped short of saying, “I don’t understand,” reluctant to make the admission. Instead he hoped that Greg would infer it and explain his joviality.

“I was,” Greg said thoughtfully. “I mean, when I woke up from the drugging and the kidnapping.” He was smiling again, but Mycroft did not see the humour. Greg’s eyes raked his face and he became serious again. “Okay, look. I was pissed as anything when I woke up. I had no idea where I was, though the dark car made me think it was you, to be honest. My head was fuzzy and my mouth tasted terrible. But I found your note. I knew I was safe, and seeing it laid out like that,” he shrugged. “I guess I trust you.” The words sounded odd to Mycroft – trust was not something he was used to being gifted from anyone.

“Why?” he asked without thinking.

Greg grinned. “Good question. In this context, what I mean is that I know you consider every eventuality when it comes to things like this. You’re a bit melodramatic, dark warehouses and all that, but I knew that if you were the one behind this there must be a good reason.” He shrugged. “I had nothing to lose by asking you.”

Mycroft stared, trying to assimilate this new information. “That’s it?” he said when it became evident that Greg had nothing more to add. “You trusted my word, then decided to ask me instead of getting angry.” He knew he sounded incredulous, which was a fair reflection of his emotional state.

“Yeah, pretty much.” Greg said. “Besides, no matter what I do, how hard I rage, I doubt I’m getting out of here without your say so.” Mycroft gave him an exasperated look, but he just grinned back. “And, I haven’t had a decent holiday in ages, nobody can bother me, and from the look of it, we’ll have all the good food and relaxation we can handle. I kind of hope Tasman takes his time. A week or two of this isn’t the worst thing I could think of.”

Mycroft was speechless. He had determined that Greg would exhibit rage before accepting his situation. Classic stages of grief. In no part of his analysis had he considered the first state to be so fleeting. He decided to keep an eye on Greg’s emotional state. There was a possibility that he was suppressing the anger and frustration and it would explode at some later point.

“So what do I need to know if I’m living here?” Greg said, as he diced the vegetables.

Mycroft was relieved to be back on solid conversational ground.  He gathered his thoughts. “If you require anything, there is a direct line to Anthea on the wall behind you. She will arrange for your requests to be brought in directly.”

“Does that include real food?” Greg asked, raising one eyebrow and cocking his head in the direction of the fridge.

“Certainly,” Mycroft replied, refusing to rise to the gentle tease. “There are several cookbooks to the right of the oven if you would like to make something in particular.”

“Nah, I tend to cook by feel,” Greg said. “It’s only baking that you need to be really careful with amounts.” He was buttering the frying-pan now as he spoke to Mycroft. Watching his easy movements was quite soothing and Mycroft was content to do so for a few moments as he poured the eggs into the pan and mixed in the rest of the ingredients.

“Anything else?” Greg asked, leaning against the bench, one eye on the bubbling eggs, the other on Mycroft. His forearms were muscled and tanned, Mycroft notice as Greg crossed them over his chest.

Mycroft hesitated. “The rooms downstairs are open to you as you wish – I will take you for a tour when we have finished eating. If your suite requires anything, Anthea can arrange it. Laundry including dry cleaning is collected regularly from the laundry under the stairs.”

Greg grinned as he heard what Mycroft was not saying. “Don’t worry, I’m not into snooping. I won’t go wandering into the other rooms upstairs.”

Mycroft shifted awkwardly, pleased that Greg had understood what he was too uncomfortable to express. “Thank you,” he said.

“When do you think my bags will arrive?” Greg asked, turning most of his attention to the eggs, which were almost cooked. As he spoke a tone sounded through the kitchen. A few seconds later the outer door opened, and Anthea came in, followed by two security guards carrying an assortment of bags. Greg grinned as they dropped the bags on the far side of the kitchen.

“This is for you,” Anthea told him in that slightly vague way she had of speaking. At least she was looking at him rather than at her Blackberry this time. She’d indicated a mobile phone and laptop. “They’re mirrors of your devices but with more security.”

“Thanks,” Greg replied, adding them both to the pile of his belongings before dishing out the omelette onto two plates. “I didn’t cook for you, didn’t know you were coming.”

“We’re not staying,” she said. Turning to Mycroft, she asked, “Was there anything else?”

“Nothing now, thank you.” Mycroft replied. “Greg will be submitting a grocery list, however. Perhaps some of the premade meals could be found alternative quarters.”

“Of course,” she replied, and turned to the men waiting in the lift. When the doors had closed, Greg turned to Mycroft, offering the plate.

“We can just eat here,” Greg said, passing a knife and fork across. “I’d offer you a beer but there isn’t any.”

“I rarely drink beer,” Mycroft said, cutting into his eggs. They were soft and fluffy, a string of cheese stretching between his fork and the plate before breaking off. He could see the steam spiralling off the food and so waited a moment before placing it in his mouth. “This is excellent, Greg.”

“Not too bad for a quick and easy.” Greg replied, an uneven smile breaking over his face. They ate in silence until two cleared plates sat on the bench.

“Thank you.” Mycroft said as Greg took their plates. It was an odd dynamic, Greg playing host though they were in Mycroft’s kitchen.

“Wait until I make you a roast dinner with the works,” Greg replied. “Been ages since I had the time to do that.”

“It has been a long time since anyone cooked for me.” Mycroft replied. Greg just grinned. “Shall I show you the rooms on this level?” Mycroft asked, and Greg nodded. They moved out from the kitchen towards the back of the flat, where Mycroft showed Greg the gym and library.

“Wow,” Greg breathed, looking at the floor to ceiling shelves.

“Help yourself,” Mycroft indicated. “Feel free to take the books anywhere you prefer.”

“Thanks,” Greg replied, eyes lingering before they both turned to leave, making their way through the kitchen to the front room. It was large and light, with several chairs and a sofa pressing into the soft carpet. There was a large cabinet on the wall, and an array of curios on a low display cabinet.

“There is a television and a selection of DVDs in this room.” Mycroft explained, showing Greg how the cabinet opened, revealing the screen and a full shelf of titles. Greg didn’t examine them too closely, just nodded before raking his gaze over the curios. Mycroft wondered why he was suddenly so reticent after their easy conversation in the kitchen. An uneasy silence descended. Mycroft kept his gaze resolutely on the neutral ground nearest him, waiting for Greg to speak.

“Thank you for this.” Greg said, his voice quietly sincere. “I know…I mean, I doubt you asked for this, having me here. You probably don’t show too many people so much of your life, but you’re being great, really great.” Mycroft nodded, recognising for the first time how awkward this really was for Greg. He wasn’t angry, which was a relief, but he was stuck inside someone else’s house, obviously feeling intrusive without having any control over it.

“I do have the wherewithal to have you transferred,” Mycroft replied. “It has been a long time since…” he paused, irritated with himself for beginning a sentence without considering how to end it satisfactorily. “I find I am appreciating your company.”

The words felt as awkward in his mouth as they’d sounded out of Greg’s; perhaps it would help signal his own discomfort to Greg.

“Well I’ll just have to keep cooking for you so I don’t get kicked out, then,” Greg said, attempting to lift the mood.

“That is acceptable.” Mycroft replied, risking lifting his eyes to meet Greg’s. The warm brown eyes seemed to envelop him, and Mycroft found himself smiling in return.

“I believe the tradition states that he who cooks does not clean up,” Mycroft said. “As I have said, make yourself at home, I will attend to the dishes.”

“I’ll have a look at what’s in the fridge, decide what I’m going to cook later.” Greg replied, following Mycroft into the kitchen. “Any idea of the timeframe here? I don’t want to order food for a week if we’re going to be out of here in a couple of days.”

Mycroft considered it as he loaded the dishwasher. “The intel indicates that there is a substantial underground network in place.” He admitted. “It is likely that we will indeed be here the week. Perhaps it would be better to order for a few days regardless? You may change your mind as to what you wish to cook.” Greg raised one eyebrow. “You said you cook by feel.” Mycroft explained. “I extrapolated that to your choice of recipe.”

Greg nodded, accepting the premise. “True. Maybe I’ll just order the makings of that roast dinner, some more eggs...” he trailed off, taking a pen and paper from the sideboard and starting to jot notes. Mycroft began to wipe out the frying-pan, the scene bizarrely domestic.

“Is there anything you don’t like?” Greg asked. “Be honest, I don’t want you to eat something just because I made it.”

Mycroft hesitated, his face heating as he considered his answer.

“Oh come on, I’ll go first, then.” Greg grinned at him. “I eat pretty basic stuff. Tried octopus once which was awful, and I’ve never been able to look a Brussel sprout in the face since mum boiled them to death when I was a kid.” He raised his eyebrows, inviting Mycroft to make his admission.

“Cauliflower, Brussel sprouts.” Mycroft admitted, adding, “Christmas pudding.”

“Christmas pudding?” Greg said incredulously. He’d been nodding along, eyes twinkling as Mycroft listed the vegetables he did not like; his face had opened in astonishment. “How can you not like Christmas pudding?”

Mycroft had finished washing the remaining dishes, and was drying his hands on a towel. He leaned against a bench, unconsciously copying the attitude of Greg earlier. “I burned my mouth on a silver sixpence when I was a boy,” he admitted. “It was painful for a long time. The local doctor assured my parents it was psychological, however I disagreed.”

“Wow,” said Greg, having listened closely. “That’s pretty harsh. What did you do the next year?”

Mycroft shrugged. “Refused to eat it. Sherlock was quite small at the time, and he made a real point of bringing it up constantly. Somehow it morphed from pudding to cake in his mind. Now he will often offer me cake when he wants to taunt me with something.” He was watching Greg’s face, wondering why he felt so compelled to tell this man inane stories from his childhood. The detective was listening, though, and there was nothing in his expression that gave away boredom, exasperation or irritation; for some reason he seemed genuinely interested in what Mycroft had to say.

“Perhaps we should bake a cake for Sherlock, then?” Greg suggested, the cheeky twinkle reappearing in his eye. “We could get Anthea to take it to him.” Mycroft felt his eyes widen then relax as Greg chuckled at his suggestion. Mycroft smiled too. “We would have to make a round cake and decorate it like a sixpence,” he replied, playing along with the joke.

“Perfect!” Greg chuckled. The atmosphere was warm and jovial again, and Mycroft marvelled at the ease with which he and Greg seemed to be sharing this space. Greg took down a cookbook, saying, “I’m going to have a look through here, see if there’s anything that catches my eye. Is there anything you like in particular?”

“Anything you choose is fine. I was prepared to eat those ready meals, as you recall.” Mycroft replied.

“Nobody is really prepared to eat those things.” Greg retorted with a shudder.

“Your cooking will certainly be an improvement.” Mycroft agreed. He hesitated before saying awkwardly, “I’m going to use the gym, if you don’t mind.”

“Of course not,” Greg replied. “It’s your house. I’ll just make a cuppa and sit and read this. Like a holiday.” He smiled a genuine smile, and Mycroft, flustered at the warmth it held, scurried upstairs to change into his running clothes. He had forgotten about his run that morning when he’d declared his intention to use the gym. Regardless, he found his secondary set of running clothes, deciding a second run would not hurt.

One factor Mycroft had not considered was that Greg would see him in his running clothes. His top wasn’t too bad, baggy and long sleeved, but the skin-tight leggings had only been purchased with the firm knowledge that nobody else would ever see him thus attired. They clung to everything, both in the front and back. Mycroft stared at himself in the mirror, an agony of indecision before him. He had already run today, but he had told Greg he would be using the gym. Changing his mind would make him appear lazy, surely? Mycroft was far from lazy, running as often as his schedule permitted. His run was the least negotiable item on his daily schedule; he had been known to have a treadmill delivered to his office in order to run a twenty minute sprint in between meetings. His en-suite and spare wardrobe were worth their weight in gold on those days. Given the lack of work on his schedule for the foreseeable future, there was absolutely no excuse not to run every day, even twice if he had the opportunity. He might even be able to extend his distance, given the opportunity to run consistently.

Taking a deep breath, Mycroft picked up his towel and walked quietly down the stairs, turning the corner quickly and heading for the gym, barely looking at Greg. The man seemed to be absorbed in his cookbook, and Mycroft was relieved to avoid conversation. As he programmed the treadmill and began his warmup, Mycroft pushed away a twinge of guilt. He had given Greg the distinct impression they might be able to leave relatively soon; in truth, his intelligence had indicated it would be several weeks, at least, before all the key players in this particular game were apprehended. With the current dynamic having developed so unexpectedly smoothly, Mycroft was reluctant to upset it with a declaration of a month’s detention. He had been as vague as possible, knowing Greg’s ability to pick holes in a lie were superior to most people. The guilt of a carefully crafted half-truth was new, though the half-truth itself was common. To be fair, though, Mycroft was usually manipulating and lying to politicians, who tended to expect it. Greg was different. As his program began – longer and harder than usual – Mycroft cleared his mind, concentrating on the burn in his lungs and legs instead.

An hour later, Mycroft stepped off the treadmill, unsteady on his tired legs. He was satisfied with his effort and took a moment to empty his drink bottle in between deep, controlled breaths. He was still concentrating on his body, mind pleasantly in neutral, when he walked into the kitchen to re-fill his drink bottle.

“Good run?” The voice behind him made Mycroft jump, dropping his water bottle in the sink. Water splashed and he started again.

“Shit, sorry.” Greg’s voice sounded again as Mycroft grabbed the towel to wipe down the cupboards and floor.

“Not a problem,” Mycroft replied, hoping the redness of embarrassment was hidden in his post-run flush. He silently urged Greg to leave, belatedly realising the man had asked him a question.

“Yes, the time and distance were satisfactory,” Mycroft answered Greg. Having cleaned up the water, he filled his drink bottle and turned to face the other man, holding the wet towel and his drink bottle strategically in front of his body. He was painfully aware of how much these leggings revealed but could not bring himself to be so rude as to leave without speaking again to Greg.

“Excuse me,” he said stiffly, escaping as quickly as possible without actually running. The stairs were a challenge, his shaking legs protesting each ascension. Normally Mycroft would strip his sweaty clothes off in the laundry, wrapping himself in a robe before showering upstairs; today, as he wrestled his shoes off, he half seriously considered installing a bathroom in the back of the gym. He shook off the idea and his discomfort as he stepped into the cascade of hot water spilling into his shower. The scent of the soap and billowing steam always soothed him physically and emotionally; he used shower gel liberally, enjoying the familiar comfort until his finger-tips told him it was time to shut off the water. As always after a run and a hot shower, Mycroft felt calm and soft; his body was heavy and warm, and he was tempted to go to bed, after his poor sleep of the night before. Checking his watch he saw that it was far too early, especially with a guest; he felt his brow furrow as he considered that term. Greg was hardly a guest, and yet he did not live here; the distinction was an irritation that Mycroft could not resolve. Suddenly annoyed with his dithering, Mycroft dressed in his most comfortable suit – a mid-grey three piece – and made his way downstairs. The kitchen was empty, but a light burned in the library. He walked down the corridor, clearing his throat as he entered the room, intending to offer Greg a glass of Scotch. He paused as he entered, taking a moment to make sense of the scene before him.

Greg had made himself comfortable in one of the wing chairs, but the slumped head and gentle snores told Mycroft he had not read long before fatigue had overtaken him. Their conversations over the course of the day had revealed several facets of Greg unknown to Mycroft; it had been interesting reconciling the deductions and suppositions he hand made about Greg with the new information. As Mycroft stood in the doorway, the soft lighting from the reading lamp illuminating Greg’s sleeping face, he studied the unknowing man before him. Though he was clearly self-conscious about his prematurely-grey hair, Mycroft thought it lent him an air of distinction. His face in repose was softer, the few line around his eyes smoothed out by the soft light and relaxed muscles. It was a pity his eyes were closed, thought Mycroft irrationally. Their calm brown gaze had shown a range of emotions today, and Mycroft had not realised how greedily he had taken that in until it was absent. The stab of disappointment brought him up short – what was he doing, standing here watching Greg sleep? The shame flooded through him, and before Greg could wake and catch him, Mycroft scurried upstairs to his office.

Once at his desk, he pored over his unfulfilled schedule for the day; only a handful of the items had been completed. As the lines he had so carefully scribed began to blur, his tired eyes struggling to focus, Mycroft reluctantly put it away. Given the change to his situation, perhaps it was prudent to be slightly more flexible. Sitting back, Mycroft closed his eyes, writing a mental list of activities for tomorrow; options should he find himself at a loose end. His chair was comfortable, as it should be; with the warmth of his muscles and calm mind, Mycroft found himself drifting, scenes from the day coming to the forefront of his mind. Greg’s face when Mycroft told the story of the Christmas pudding, eyes attentive and empathetic; the poorly disguised disgust at the sight of Mycroft’s proposed supper; his reflective apprehension when he thanked Mycroft for opening his home so freely. Mycroft could feel his mouth had turned up in a soft smile as more snippets of his day rose before his eyes, all of which featured Greg. He felt light, as though he was floating, enjoying the warm emotions swirling through him as he examined the varying expressions he had observed on Greg’s face that day.

“Mycroft?” Mycroft’s eyes flew open at the sound of Greg’s voice. His eyes locked on Greg’s, the other man looking dishevelled, his hair showing evidence of a hand running through it. His eyes were half closed, sheepish grin across his face. In the stronger light, Mycroft’s brain noted the stubble spread across Greg’s chin and cheeks, fascinatingly grey and silver in patches.

“Yes.” Mycroft cleared his throat after the croaky response. “Yes.”

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to intrude. I just saw your light on, wanted to say goodnight.”

“Of course. I was about to retire myself,” Mycroft assured him.

“Looked to me like you were asleep,” Greg replied lightly. Mycroft just raised an eyebrow, but after a moment he shrugged, and Greg chuckled. “No judgement here, I dozed off in the library. Guess I’ll have to finish my book tomorrow.”

“You will have ample opportunity,” Mycroft agreed.

“Well, goodnight.” Greg said once more, flashing another sleepy smile before disappearing in the direction of the guest suite.

“Goodnight, Greg.” Mycroft’s voice followed Greg out. As soon as he was gone, Mycroft dropped back into his seat, head pressing into the cushioning as he clenched his eyes closed. That brief interaction had superseded almost all the moments from the rest of the day. Sleepy smile, hooded eyes, rough voice, stubble. Each detail was carefully examined and salted away for the future. Mycroft was not overly familiar with what was happening, but neither was he ignorant of the fact that for some odd reason, he was finding himself drawn to Greg Lestrade, the accidental house guest he seemed to be hosting.


	3. Chapter 3

The ensuing days felt strangely low key. Mycroft and Greg worked smoothly around each other. They found themselves in the kitchen at the same time on the first morning, an event which repeated coincidentally until it was an unspoken agreement for them to meet around 8am, when Mycroft would brew coffee while Greg made breakfast. They went their separate ways in between meals, falling into a loose routine sharing the library, gym and front room. Mycroft had thought he would be lost without his work to occupy his time; as it was, the hours passed quickly, books read and kilometres run giving him a strange sense of fulfilment despite his lack of impact on the world. For his part, Greg seemed to be content, too. He was a flexible house guest, working around Mycroft’s preferred activities, going out of his way to give Mycroft space. Even so, meals had become a shared time, as Mycroft watched Greg cook, listening and observing as he worked with the ease and confidence of long practice. The roast dinner was a success; they had eaten roast beef sandwiches for lunches for several days, Greg having forgotten to specify the size of the roast. It had become a small running joke, the never ending roast beef sandwiches. The sense of unity this engendered was both alien and comforting to Mycroft, who was highly conscious of the effect Greg was having on him.

Although Mycroft could honestly say he had read the entirety of the books he had selected, it was fortunate that they were all volumes he had read previously. Few of the details registered in his pre-occupied brain; every character took on Greg’s face, his mannerisms, his voice. The hours of Mycroft’s run, usually a brief respite from his mind’s whirring, were now filled with replays of their conversation. He analysed Greg’s tone of voice and the way he responded to Mycroft (was he genuinely amused? Why had he asked that question?). Late one night, Mycroft woke in the dark, gasping, heart beating fast. He fought through the panic of not enough air until the dream came back to him.

_Greg’s fingers were gentle as they trailed across Mycroft’s skin. “A little firmer,” he murmured in Mycroft’s ear, the breeze blowing over his ear making him shiver. He could feel Greg’s body pressing behind him, firm and warm as his hands guided Mycroft’s on the bread dough. Their fingers intertwined as they needed the dough together, pressing into the softness, skin sliding against skin, the slight roughness of flour stimulating the sensitive skin. Mycroft could feel his breathing speeding up, his heart pounding in his ears, the blood rushing to feed the greedy cells as they fought to pump harder. He gasped as Greg’s fingers abandoned the pretence of bread dough, sliding up Mycroft’s exposed forearms. He must have rolled his sleeves up for baking, he thought, a tiny, ‘oh!’ sounding as Greg’s fingers teased lightly at the sensitive skin of his inner elbow. Mycroft dropped his head back onto Greg’s shoulder, rolling his hands over to expose his inner arms, allowing Greg’s fingers to trace patterns over the pale skin, raising goose bumps and sending shots of electricity through his body._

_When Greg’s mouth ghosted over Mycroft’s ear, he groaned, allowing his head to loll in the other direction, wordlessly presenting his neck. “I want to hear you,” Greg whispered, fingers still moving maddingly light, lips brushing Mycroft’s ear as he spoke. “Keep making noise. I need to know what you like.” His mouth latched onto Mycroft’s skin at that point, just below his ear, firm and wet. Mycroft felt his body spasm, fists forming at the sensation. He thought there was probably some kind of noise, given the deep chuckle Greg made. He started moving down Mycroft’s throat, the heavy blast of his exhales across the wet skin a delicious tease contrasting the heat of his mouth. His fingers continued their mindless shapes and Mycroft heard himself whine ‘please…’. Between the mouth now suckling at his neck and the excruciatingly soft touch against his arms, Mycroft’s body was singing with sensation._

_With a suddenly firmer grip, Greg’s fingers took hold of Mycroft’s arms, turning him around, mouth still glued to his neck. Mycroft found himself pressed back against the bench, Greg’s body flush against him, revealing both his own arousal and Mycroft’s as they slotted together. The explosion of pleasure radiated out, consuming his body…_

 

Sitting up in his bed, Mycroft closed his eyes. He had wondered if and when this would happen – his subconscious taking the increasingly comfortable relationship between them and extrapolating it into something more. True, he enjoyed Greg’s company more than almost anyone he had met. Certainly, Greg was an attractive man, and Mycroft was not stubborn enough not to admit to himself that he had noticed and appreciated Greg’s tendency to dress in form fitting jeans and slim cut t-shirts. As his daydreams had continued during his increasingly long runs, Mycroft had noticed how much more affection and casual intimacy had developed between them. It was only a matter of time until his brain made the leap from friendship to more.

Looking at the clock by his bed, Mycroft groaned to himself. He had barely been asleep an hour, and now his body was decidedly not prepared for rest. His arousal in the dream had translated to real life; the raging erection was pressing insistently against his pyjama pants. Resolutely ignoring it, Mycroft stared at the ceiling. After a few moments, with his breathing calmer and brain no closer to winding down, he decided to get up again. Perhaps a movie would help him to relax back into sleep.

Out of habit he dressed in his usual tailored pants and shirt, hesitating before adding the matching waistcoat. The extra layer made him feel more secure, though he did forego the tie. It was close to midnight, after all. He padded downstairs quietly, mindful of Greg, who he assumed was in bed; it was only when he entered the kitchen and heard quiet voices from the front room did he realise that was not the case. He froze in the act of filling the kettle, wondering if he should investigate. Would Greg resent his intrusion, or welcome the company? Tentatively, Mycroft stepped into the room. Greg had his back to the entrance, his laptop set up on the table. Mycroft could hear now the sound of a commentator – no, two – and an excited crowd. Frowning, he moved closer, peering at the screen.

“May I ask what you are watching, Greg?”

Greg turned sharply at his words, though his surprise was not unwelcoming. “It’s the Crossfit Games.”

“I beg your pardon?”

Greg chuckled. “Have a seat, Mycroft.” He offered a beer from the icebox at his feet. After a long pause, Mycroft accepted it and sat next to Greg on the sofa. He had to sit quite close, given the small screen of Greg’s laptop. The soft cushions meant he listed a little towards the warmth of Greg’s body, excruciatingly aware of the soft t-shirt and track pants Greg was wearing. Self-consciously, Mycroft shifted his weight, leaning back upright. Greg didn’t seem to notice. His eyes were glued to the screen, and he was explaining with enthusiasm the scene playing out on his laptop.

“This has to be the best reason to be okay with being stuck in here.” Greg said happily. “Present company excluded from that comment of course.”

Mycroft felt a tingle skitter across his shoulder blades at that, but he ignored it. “How long is the broadcast?”

“This event? A few hours. There are about thirteen events over four days.” Greg explained. “There are heats in this one though so it’s not like they all do this for the whole few hours.” He chuckled again, glancing at Mycroft’s face them bringing his eyes back to watch the astonishment at the level of exertion the athletes were showing on the screen.

“What are they doing?” he asked. _And why are they doing it?_ Was the unspoken second question.

Greg pointed. “They have to climb that rope twice, then use that ski thing – I have no idea why they call it that – then do squats holding the weights above their head.” Mycroft was strangely fascinated. They were ridiculously fit, he could see. They all made it look so easy, which he commented to Greg. When he flicked his eyes over, he caught Greg looking at him, rather than the screen.

“Those weights are 155 pounds.” Greg pointed out. “That’s about…”

“Seventy point three one kilograms.” Mycroft supplied. “A lot.”

“A lot.” Greg agreed. They sank into a comfortable silence, Mycroft’s fascination growing as he listened to the commentary about strategies and the strengths and weaknesses of the athletes. When it was over, Greg sat back, dropping his empty bottle into the icebox. He sighed with contentment, and Mycroft finished his beer, casting around for some way to extend this experience.

“Do women not compete?” he asks finally. Greg turns to him with surprise on his face, a slight smile playing over his mouth. “Of course. They went first, we only watched the second half.” He paused, and Mycroft found himself willing Greg to ask, to offer… “It’s streaming, so we could go back and watch the first half. If you want.”

“Certainly.” Mycroft replied, his voice hesitant.

Greg grinned, reaching for another two beers. They weren’t Mycroft’s preferred drink but he accepted anyway. “Good thing I came prepared, then.” They watched the women’s competition, which Mycroft found no less interesting than the men’s. Greg was obviously a fan; he added his own commentary about many of the athletes as the rounds progressed. At the end of competition, they watched the breakdown of the points; the fight between the top women was far tighter than in the men’s contests, where Mat Fraser was dominating.

“How many more events are there?” Mycroft asked, when Greg closed his laptop.

“Three tomorrow.” Greg replied. Mycroft nodded. He could see they referred to this as event 10 – which meant there were nine events that had already occurred. He wondered if they were also available to view? While the content was quite interesting, Mycroft knew that in reality, he had most enjoyed sharing it with Greg. Watching and listening to him as he was so enthusiastic and animated, was as captivating as anything he’d ever seen. His body warmth was tantalisingly close, and Mycroft found himself craving it again. It would be too obvious, surely, to suggest they watch the previous contests. Perhaps a casual observation in the morning about that day’s events? They could have many more hours of glorious proximity, sharing drinks and comments in the bubble created by their shared focus. Mycroft resolved to raise the possibility tomorrow. So intent was he on his decision that he missed Greg’s question.

“I’m sorry, would you repeat that please?” Mycroft asked, bringing his focus back to Greg. The other man was looking at him in amusement, the patience on his face gentle and endearing.

“I said, I’m not really tired and there are nine other events to watch. We could binge on them before tomorrow. I mean then you’d be right up to date for tomorrow. Junk food and beer and the fittest people on the planet.” Greg joked, and Mycroft wondered for a fleeting second if he was covering nerves of his own. Mycroft’s nerves were singing loud and ecstatic, and he take a moment to still them a little before answering.

“That would be…I would like that. Very much.” Mycroft added, flushing a little, hoping he had not tipped his hand too much. Greg’s grin was broad and genuine, though, so whatever Mycroft had inferred, Greg appeared receptive.

“I will, however make two amendments.” Greg raised one eyebrow, his body language relaxed as he waited for Mycroft to continue. “Scotch, not beer.” He made a face of disgust and Greg chuckled. “Also, I will refrain from the junk food, although please do not feel that you cannot indulge.”

“No problem,” Greg agreed. “After those beers I’ve gotta use the men’s, then I’ll gather the food while you get the Scotch happening. Good plan?”

“Certainly,” Mycroft agreed. Another lovely smile, and Greg stood up, dropping his hand casually on Mycroft’s shoulder. “This should be fun,” he said as he left the room. Mycroft smiled in response, but his heart was racing at the contact. He couldn’t remember the last time someone had touched him in a friendly manner, handshakes notwithstanding. He sat for a moment then shook himself. He must prepare himself for this evening. Before he could talk himself out of it, Mycroft made his way swiftly up to his bedroom, searching the back of his wardrobe for little worn clothing. Once dressed, he spent only a moment looking at his reflection – dark jeans, white shirt, fine navy jumper – before walking decisively back downstairs. Despite his resolution, Mycroft found his heart still beating fast as he found Greg waiting for him. The junk food he had collected from the kitchen was piled on the coffee table beside the laptop.

“I’ll leave the Scotch selection to you,” he told Mycroft, speaking before looking up.  Mycroft paused in the doorway before answering, “Thank you, Greg.” He watched as in slow motion Greg’s eyes lifted from the screen as he turned to focus on him. The nervous butterflies in his stomach fluttered as Greg’s eyes opened wider and his gaze raked over Mycroft’s body, lingering in a way that both made Mycroft feel self-conscious and made the butterflies take flight.

“You changed,” Greg said. Nervously, Mycroft ran one hand over his side. “It looks great. Much more comfortable.” Greg assured him with a smile. As Mycroft crossed the room to the sideboard, Greg added, “I put the junk on my side of the computer so you won’t be tempted.” Mycroft frowned, turning back so that Greg could see his confusion. He waited as Greg clarified, “Sometimes it’s hard to refuse when something tempting is right in front of you.”

Mycroft swallowed at the double meaning, turning back to select a bottle. The tone of Greg’s voice certainly didn’t sound as though it was intentional, but there was no way to really know. Looking at him would give him more data, but Mycroft found himself unable to turn around. Instead he chose a bottle at random, then a couple of glasses, schooling his face before turning back to Greg. He left the previous ambiguous comment unanswered.

“We’ll start from the start, yeah?” Greg asked. Mycroft nodded, pouring them each two fingers of scotch. He’d grabbed the Balvenie, one of the best bottles in his bar. They settled back on the sofa in the same seats as they had earlier, Mycroft wondering if they were fractionally closer than necessary.

“This is the Amanda Forty-five,” Greg said. “First event is for time.”

“I have no idea what that means,” Mycroft admitted honestly. It was rare for him to say those words, partly because he so often understood what was going on, but more often because he did not like not knowing. Greg, for his part, simply explained what the athletes would have to do. “I’m going to skip past some of this talk beforehand so we can fit in all the events before tomorrows’ competition starts.” Mycroft nodded. Between them they knew a lot already and he had noted watching the previous event that he commentators tended to repeat themselves often.

“They do tend to repeat themselves,” he offered.

“I think it makes them all feel more important if they have something to say.” Greg agreed. He opened a bag of corn chips, absent-mindedly offering them to Mycroft, who refused.

“Oh, sorry,” Greg said. His eyes flicked back to Mycroft, who determinedly did not take his eyes from the screen, where the first heat of the Amanda .45 was beginning. “I hope this isn’t a thing about your weight,” Greg said after a moment. Mycroft’s eyes pulled sharply away from the screen to look at Greg, who was still regarding him. “I know you mentioned that Sherlock talked a lot about you and cake. Honestly, you’ve got nothing to worry about.”

“Thank you, Greg.” Mycroft replied stiffly, looking at him for any sign of deception or insincerity. He found none – as was usually the case with Greg – and Greg returned his attention to the screen. A moment later, so did Mycroft. He wasn’t exactly sure what that moment was about – was Greg flirting with him? – but it seemed safer all around to watch and comment on the event in front of him. He deliberately asked about previous champions, and to his enormous relief Greg took the hint, beginning a lively debate on the likelihood of Katrin Davidsdottir three-peating this year.

“Three-peating?” Mycroft echoed, smirking at the strange mash up of words.

“Yes, three-peating.” Greg said firmly. “She won the last two years, so if she wins this year, it will be a three-peat.”

“You’re the expert,” Mycroft said, with just the right amount of teasing doubt in his voice. _Where had that come from_ , he wondered, grinning innocently at Greg as he gave Mycroft a stern look.

“Yes, I am.” Greg replied loftily. The balance was restored, and they watched companionably then, Mycroft refilling their drinks once before the end of the event. “Better get us some water if we want to last the rest of the night,” Greg said, indicating his empty Scotch glass. “Great Scotch, though, thanks Mycroft.”

“Help yourself. You do live here,” Mycroft told him. It was an odd phrase, he thought. True enough, as Greg had no recourse to leave; but for some reason it felt more like Greg wanted to be here. He certainly did not seem to be too upset about it. A most unusual situation. There had been precious few visitors to this flat since Mycroft had moved in five years ago – Sherlock, of course, and Anthea; several of his security people had swept the rooms at various intervals, and the cleaning and delivery people were of course admitted. By Mycroft could not for the life of him remember the last time he had invited another person here for the pleasure of their company. Could not remember the last time he had invited someone anywhere to that end, come to think of it. It was this morose thought that was still sliding through his brain when Greg returned with two large glasses of water.

“Thank you,” Mycroft said absently, accepting the glass. It wasn’t until Greg did not sit down that he looked up, blinking as his mind slipped back into social interaction mode. “Was there something else?”

That sounded terribly formal, but Greg just cocked his head. “Looked like you were miles away,” he said. A long moment played out as Mycroft did not offer and Greg did not ask, until he did. “D’you want to talk about it?” Greg asked, leaning against the doorway. Mycroft frowned, several thoughts racing through his mind at the same time. It had been a long time since someone had noticed his mental absence and asked about it. He knew Greg was observant but this was more than usual – or perhaps Mycroft’s face had changed more significantly than he had realised. As he craned his neck to look up at Greg, Mycroft also wondered why he was standing. It took several seconds before the thought struck him that Greg was trying to give him the physical space he might want before starting a personal conversation. The consideration of such an idea was…new.

Blinking again, Mycroft shook his head slowly. “Just…some new ideas.” He said carefully. How much to give away? “I realised it has been a long time since I had a visitor.”

Greg’s eyes narrowed a little, and Mycroft knew that he knew there was more to it than that, but he did not pry. “Well I’d go and give you your space, but I’ve been told there’s a few unsavoury types out to get me.”

“True.” Mycroft allowed, relaxing as Greg pushed off the wall and sank back onto the sofa. “Hopefully you’ll be safe in here.”

“Oh I think I’ll be fine.” Greg grinned at him. They both drank from their water and Greg started the event again. Hours and hours passed in a blur of discussion, exhilarate shouts from Greg and amused glances from Mycroft. When they reached the end of the obstacle course, it was close to 3am. Mycroft felt far more tired than usual; he often worked through the night. Perhaps it was a combination of the companionship and the extra sleep he had become accustomed to over the past week (had he and Greg really been here six days together?), but his eyes felt heavy now. As the hours had passed he and Greg had sunk back towards the middle, and the touch of their shoulders was electric, and then a point of consciousness for the remainder of the event.

“You up for more?” Greg asked in between yawns.

“Of course.” Mycroft replied. He tightened the muscles in his jaw, staving off the yawn that threatened.

“Are you sure?” Greg teased. “Not going to fall asleep on me, are you?”

His tone was warm and teasing, but the immediate image of Mycroft falling asleep literally on top of Greg made him flush, and he looked away, blinking to rid his eyes of the image. He could see Greg frowning a little out of the corner of his eye, but once again Greg didn’t press it.

“We’re up to the Chipper,” Greg said. “One of my favourites.” Mycroft nodded. A small part of his brain wondered how many times Greg would put off asking what Mycroft was thinking when he looked away or blushed at an odd moment. Mycroft pushed it away, concentrating on the event. It was, after all, Greg’s favourite.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was inspired by the 2017 Crossfit Games (watch [here](https://games.crossfit.com/workouts/games/2017)). Mat Fraser did dominate the men’s events, and two Australian women fought it out for the women’s title (go Aussie!). There was an event similar to what Greg described (I have no idea why it’s called a ski, either), and the other events did occur, but some of the organisational details have been rearranged to suit. Katrin Davidsdottir did win the women’s event in 2015 and 2016; she finished 5th in 2017, behind Tia-Clair Toomey and Kara Webb, both Australians.


	4. Chapter 4

Something was different. As Mycroft’s awareness slowly rose above the stupor of sleep, he registered a multitude of details. He was warm and comfortable, cuddled up against something soft and…breathing? The familiar scent took a moment to place until it came to him in a rush – Greg. They had been watching television. The Crossfit Games. Mycroft’s eyes swimming, the lids closing of their own accord; his head had been so heavy, he’d rested it against the back of the sofa for a moment…

Now here he was, trying to figure out how he was cuddled up sprawled half across Greg. Greg appeared to have slipped away from Mycroft, who had leaned in the same direction, resting on top of him. Some shuffling and Mycroft found his head resting on Greg’s side, arm flung across the hip just under his chin. Carefully raising his head, Mycroft realised Greg had one hand resting on his shoulder blade. It slid a little bit as Mycroft’s body shifted and he tensed, wondering if Greg would wake, sparks flaring along the points of contact. The silver head stirred, rolling against the arm rest, but his eyes remained closed. A small sigh escaped Greg’s parted lips, and Mycroft found himself staring at them for far too long. Moving slowly and carefully, he slid out from between Greg and the sofa cushions. Seeing the laptop on the coffee table, he leaned over to press it closed, the click loud in the silence of the room. He felt rather than heard Greg stir, the legs pressed beside his moving against the cushions.

“Mycroft?” It was a sleepy question, and the deep rumble of his name made Mycroft freeze. Greg was awake. Which meant Greg knew he’d fallen asleep. There was some daylight edging around the curtain, indicating they’d been asleep…hours. His heart fell as he braced himself to face Greg, who would surely berate him for his error in judgement. Why had he not retired to bed when he felt sleepy?

“Yes, Greg.” Mycroft fought to keep his voice level. Had there been a tremor, or was it in his head? Throwing a glance at Greg told him nothing. He was too busy still rubbing one hand over his face, yawning loudly. As the yawn ended he slumped back against the sofa, appearing to have no issue with their current predicament. Mycroft waited, every muscle tensed to leap up if necessary, but Greg just opened his eyes and blinked, then grinned, at Mycroft.

“Sorry I fell asleep,” Greg said easily, finally pushing himself up, creating some space between his body and Mycroft’s. “Did you sleep too?”

“I believe so.” Mycroft choked out. His body was still wound as tight as a drum, energy thrumming through him as he suppressed the urge to flee. He turned to face forward, casting about for an excuse to step out of the room.

“Jeez, I need a shave,” Greg yawned again, fingers of one hand brushing across his cheek. “You too, actually.” Mycroft automatically raised one hand to his face, wincing as he felt the undoubtedly gingery stubble on his cheeks. He closed his eyes, wishing for something, anything to arise as a reason to leave. As he did, his stomach protested the lack of breakfast. Perfect.

“Are you hungry?” Mycroft blurted. “We should make breakfast. I can make breakfast.” He stood, nervously adjusting his jumper. Greg was frowning a bit, sleep still slowing his movements. Mycroft took the opportunity to go, pausing once he was alone in the kitchen. He could feel hysteria overcoming him a little, and he took two deep breaths before deciding on eggs. Eggs were good. He found a frying pan, wincing as it clanged onto the stovetop. His hands were trembling as he lit the gas, heart still racing, brain barely managing to work through the process of frying eggs. There were too many other things swirling around in the background, images and scents, the feel of a body pressed against his own…Mycroft shook it off, looking at the eggs in his hand instead. He concentrated on cracking the eggs, tossing shells into the sink in a rare show of untidiness.

“Mycroft?” Greg appeared in the doorway, looking concerned. Looking adorable, Mycroft’s brain supplied, his stomach flipping over in agreement. He swallowed and put toast in the toaster, shoving the lever down with a clumsy hand.

“Are you okay?” Greg asked, leaning against the doorjamb. He had crossed his arms across his chest, but it was defensive, not aggressive. His face still bore traces of the confusion Mycroft had left him with earlier.

Fiddling with the bread bag, Mycroft nodded, though he could feel it was too-much-too-fast. “Fine,” he replied. Keeping his hands busy – and his eyes averted – was paramount, and he busied himself with plates and cutlery, putting eggs and bread away, checking the contents of the frying pan. He could feel Greg watching him, and hoped that it would be the same as the other awkward moments this week. Greg would ask, he would defer unconvincingly, Greg would back off. As Mycroft slid the eggs off the frying pan and onto the toast, Greg broke their previous pattern.

“You do know it’s my job to know when people aren’t telling the truth.” The statement was mild, but Mycroft knew it was making a point. His hands hovered over the sink before he deposited the frying pan. He did not answer, not trusting his voice, instead taking his plate to the table. Courtesy dictated he wait for Greg, which he did, hands in lap. Mycroft knew he was being cowardly, avoiding the conversation as much as possible. If he wasn’t imprisoned here he would have simply walked out, putting as much distance as he could between himself and his temptation.

“I’m not calling you a liar, Mycroft,” Greg continued as he sat opposite Mycroft. Ignoring his meal, Greg leaned on the table with his elbows, “but there’s something bothering you.” Mycroft heard the words but his mind was too overwhelmed to process the information. He ate mechanically, chewing the eggs and toast without tasting them.

“I get the impression it’s me,” Greg said quietly. “If you could tell me what I’ve done-”

“Nothing,” Mycroft blurted, interrupting Greg. Breakfast complete, he rose from the table, cutlery clattering against his plate as his trembling fingers tried to bring them together. Abandoning the effort, Mycroft stood up, his spine painfully straight after the hours slumped on the sofa. “Nothing,” he repeated more quietly. “There’s nothing, Greg.” The lie hung heavily in the air, tension vibrating between them. Mycroft found he was holding his breath, waiting for Greg’s reaction. When nothing came – no words, no raised eyebrow – he said, “I will have to leave you to your own company. I require more sleep. I apologise.” Without waiting for Greg to reply, Mycroft turned and made his way to his bedroom. Closing the door he leaned against it, closing his eyes. It did not erase the last image he had of Greg’s face – the frustration and hurt he’d not tried to hide. Mycroft sighed. Despite his restraint towards Greg, it appeared he’d ruined whatever it was that had been growing between them.

+++

Mycroft had heard someone, a junior minister probably, refer to this time of the night as ‘stupid-o’clock’. Tonight, he agreed with the woman. The day had been interminable, but he’d remained in his bedroom apart from one furtive trip to the kitchen, which had netted him a hastily assembled meal of fruit and some of the crisps Greg had ordered. Once night had fallen, Mycroft had tried to sleep, showering and dressing for bed as usual. He’d vacillated between shaving and not, finally deciding to remove the awful ginger whiskers. He’d dropped into a restless doze for a while, but now he was awake, so much that he knew he’d never get back to sleep tonight. As quietly as possible Mycroft rose from his bed. He tied his dressing gown over his pyjamas, intending to make a pot of tea to take back to his office.

When Mycroft entered the kitchen, though, he stopped, the bread-making dream from so much earlier coming back to him with force. _How long ago was that?_ He breathed deeply, hoping to support his suddenly pounding heart before he passed out. It was so clear he could almost feel the dough under his fingers, smell the yeast as it combined with the sugar and water…

Ridiculous as it was, Mycroft felt the sudden urge to make bread. Looking again at the clock, he calculated. If he started now, the bread would be ready somewhere around breakfast time. It wouldn’t be a total waste, then. Nodding to himself, he put the kettle on. He could make tea while the bread rested. As he found the ingredients he needed, Mycroft resolutely refused to think about the disastrous conversation of the night before. He made himself consider the chemistry of bread making, the effects of temperature and humidity on the baking process – anything but Greg.

The process of creating the dough was restful, though an underlying tension accompanied it – he half expected to feel Greg’s hands sliding along his arms at any moment. He couldn’t decide if he was relieved or disappointed. Once the dough had been kneaded and was resting, Mycroft allowed himself to sit with a pot of camomile tea.

“Enough for two?” the voice was quiet but Mycroft was startled enough to spill his cup, tea pooling swiftly across the bench. “I’ve got it,” Greg said, grabbing a cloth to soak up the liquid. He tossed it in the sink before taking a mug from the cupboard.

Wordlessly, Mycroft filled the mug, then his own. They stood at the bench, the heat curling around their faces. Mycroft kept his eyes on the swirls of steam, determined not to open the conversation.

“Did you sleep much today?” Greg asked.

“Some,” Mycroft replied. The tentative opening was good, impersonal, undemanding. He could feel Greg’s restraint in the careful choice of words, the smoothly polite voice. Mycroft made an effort, adding, “Enough that I’m awake now.”

“Me too,” Greg replied. “Probably a bad idea, switching days and nights around.”

“Probably,” said Mycroft. He couldn’t resist adding, “Although it doesn’t matter all that much at the moment.” There was no reply, and he drank deeply from his tea, which was at perfect drinking temperature – warming but not scalding. Before the silence became too awkward, he checked the clock, relieved to find it was time to knead down the dough. Standing from the table, Greg’s eyes bored into him and he moved stiffly, self-conscious under the scrutiny. Collecting the bowl, Mycroft lifted the tea towel and examined the puffed up dough. It was perfect, ready to work with.

Mycroft directed all his considerable focus on the task, scattering flour with an almost desperate precision. He was watching the bowl, adding the water when a pair of tanned hands with gentle fingers appeared in his field of vision, closing over the edge of the bowl. With a shaking hand, Mycroft lowered the towel and pressed his palms into the bench. He did not look up but he could sense Greg standing to his left at the end of the bench. Nobody said anything, and Mycroft wondered exactly how long Greg was willing to wait, because it would be a cold day in hell indeed before he began the conversation he feared Greg was about to insist they have.

“Mycroft,” Greg’s voice was quiet but firm. “Not to sound too dramatic, but I really think we need to talk.” He did not remove his hands until Mycroft nodded, still staring at the contents of the bowl. When Greg had moved around to sit in the chair opposite, it was a strange turn of perspective – Mycroft standing, preparing food while Greg sat and watched.

“I am going to continue with this,” Mycroft said stiffly. “If I don’t continue to knead it the gluten will fail.”

“Of course,” Greg replied, and Mycroft rolled up the sleeves first of his dressing gown, then his pyjamas. His mind was as blank as he could make it – the best defence he had against the flight instinct that kept coming over him. There was nowhere to go, he and Greg were stuck together for the foreseeable future – this conversation was inevitable. Might as well get it over with, he tried to coach himself. He failed miserably, resolutely plunging his hands into the bowl and waiting stubbornly for Greg to begin.

“I get the impression I’m making you uncomfortable,” Greg said, and Mycroft could hear the careful preparation behind the words. He didn’t respond. It was clear there was more on Greg’s mind and he would rather hear it all at once. Sure enough, after a beat Greg continued. “I’m not entirely sure what it is I’m doing or saying but I’d really appreciate some feedback here.” His voice softened. “Sometimes I think we’re getting on really well, like we’re friends, or…and then sometimes it’s like I’ve said something really offensive.” Mycroft wondered what might have come after the, ‘or…’, but he daren’t ask. “We’ve gotten to know each other far more in these past few days, how many is it? I’ve lost count a bit,” he admitted with a grin, one that Mycroft did not share. “Anyway, it seems like you’ve relaxed a bit, we talk and laugh and stir each other a bit, and then that just,” he shrugged, “stops.” Mycroft listened, the words entering his brain and languishing at reception, not enough brain cells online to process the words properly. The tone of Greg’s voice was careful, considerate, as though he was worried about how Mycroft would respond to him. Of course he would care, they were stuck in the same house for goodness knew how much longer, Mycroft thought fuzzily. A quick flick of his eyes upwards took a snapshot of Greg that could only be considered concerned – leaning forward on his elbows, brow creased, eyes empathetic. Mycroft started looking at the dough again. It was almost ready to rest again so he worked slowly, mind now whirring into gear. The sincerity in Greg’s face and voice made him think, recall the words Greg had just said and examine them more fully. He wanted to know why things had been so awkward, why Mycroft had been so inconstant. Mycroft could not tell him. Perhaps he could work around the actual words, though? Phrase it in a way that explained his discomfort without being so open about the depth of his regard. Not regard, affection.

“You are correct,” Mycroft said, still watching his fingers work through the dough. The rhythm was good, giving him something to focus on so his mouth could work without the burden of his brain. “I have relaxed more in the last six days than in a long time. We have developed a more cordial relationship than I had anticipated.”

“But?” Greg prompted when Mycroft stopped.

It took a long few moments but Mycroft continued, his own words as careful as Greg’s had been. “I am not used to living with someone,” he said, hoping he wouldn’t offend Greg. “Sometimes the proximity is…constricting.” He flicked another look up at Greg, who was nodding his head thoughtfully.

“Bullshit.” Greg said, so casually it took Mycroft a second to realise what he’d just said.

“I beg your pardon?” Mycroft’s shock was great enough to stop him working the dough. Instead he stood upright, staring at Greg, hands pressed into the bench.

“Finally. You’re looking at me,” said Greg. There was a determination in his face Mycroft had not seen. “That is a lovely tale of a bachelor thrust into flatemateship, Mycroft, but it’s as true as the guy ‘holding it for a friend,’” he said.

“Are you comparing me to a low level drug dealer?” Mycroft asked in astonishment.

“Well, yeah, I guess I am.” Greg answered, his tone now bordering on belligerent. “You’re trying to play me, but it won’t work. I do this for a living, like you, and I am very good at it.” He wasn’t boasting, just stating a fact.

“Fine.” Mycroft heard himself saying, eyes locked on Greg’s. “There is more.”

“Go on, then,” Greg said, crossing his arms.

Mycroft froze, realising the hole he had just for himself. “I…I am not used to having a relationship with anyone that was not politically motivated,” he began. “Even my family, to some degree, although I would never sit and talk as they cooked, or take part in most of the activities we have undertaken together.”

“Crossfit not big in your family, then?” Greg asked. The slight joke gave Mycroft encouragement. Greg was listening, at least.

“No.” Mycroft replied. “I don’t always…sometimes there are situations in which I am unsure of the appropriate response.” Much closer to the truth, but still missing the key element. He watched Greg’s face as he took in this new information, trying to decide if Mycroft was telling the whole truth or not.

“I find that hard to believe,” Greg replied. “Don’t you make a living out of appropriate responses?”

“Professionally, yes,” said Mycroft. “Personal situations are…more difficult. There is room for choice. Preference.” He swallowed hard, wondering if the thinly veiled explanation would be enough for Greg to connect the dots. “The possibility of rejection.”

“Preference.” Greg murmured, his eyes roving over Mycroft as he considered the cryptic words. Mycroft’s heart was pounding and he’d given up entirely on the bread. This was far more critical. Would Greg decode his words? To Mycroft’s alarm, a bloom of understanding came over his face, and he smiled a surprised, relieved smile.

“Ah.” Greg breathed. “I understand. Or I think I do.” He slid off his stool and stood once again at the side of the bench. “Am I right in thinking that these situations involve a particular action you’d like to take, but you’re not sure how it would be received?”

Mycroft stood very still for a beat. Finally he nodded, feeling his face flush and a lump rise in his throat. He knew his eyes were wide, they felt like saucers; he could not tear his gaze from Greg’s. Was Greg going to bring this ongoing crescendo to a resolution? God, he hoped so.

“In that case, I’m going to do something, something I’ve wanted to do for a while.” Greg told him, his voice low and calm as though talking to a skittish horse. “If I’m wrong, or it’s not what you expect, that’s fine. Any response is fine as long as it’s honest.” Greg told him, his eyebrows rising in emphasis. Mycroft swallowed hard, his breathing shallowing out, but he nodded. There was a lot of that going on, he thought to himself. How convenient that he didn’t have to try and come up with words.

Greg smiled, looking down at the bread dough. “I think that needs a little longer,” he said, and stepped around the corner of the bench until he was standing behind Mycroft looking over his shoulder. “Is this alright?” he asked, breath tickling the hairs on Mycroft’s neck.

Mycroft nodded again. Greg’s hands weren’t on the bench – he had allowed space for Mycroft to leave if he wanted to – but his body was close to Mycroft, much closer than it needed to be; Mycroft couldn’t tell if the heat he could feel behind him was his imagination or not. He could feel Greg’s body shift closer, his arms extending slowly until his hands rested on the bench beside Mycroft’s, his thumbs resting next to Mycroft’s pinkies. Mycroft controlled his breathing carefully, the electricity skittered up and down his spine at the minute touch. When he didn’t move, Greg’s hands slid across, covering Mycroft’s, the palms rough against Mycroft’s knuckles. His fingers finally slid home, resting in the spaces between Mycroft’s, almost interlacing them. Mycroft felt the warmth return to his hands, the cold of the bench below permeating his palms.

“More kneading, then,” Greg murmured lifting his hands towards the dough. Mycroft startled, then followed, their joined hands in the dough bringing his dream back in incredible detail.

“Oh,” he whispered. Was that why the idea of making bread had come to him? He pushed the thought away, focussing instead on the sensations assailing him. Greg’s hands and his worked together, pressing into the dough, though the effect as kneading was negligible. This had nothing to do with making bread, and the certain knowledge made Mycroft’s already pounding heart leap once more. Their fingers passed over and around, slowly at first, Mycroft tentative and Greg controlled, until, with a gasp, Mycroft’s hands twisted around to capture Greg’s, holding them still. He could hear and feel Greg’s breathing, harsh and laboured in his ear.

“I dreamed this,” Mycroft found himself saying.

“You dreamed about me?” Greg asked quietly. His hands were still within Mycroft’s, his body unmoving.

“I dreamed about this. This.” Mycroft said. His voice seemed to be coming from very far away – why else could be telling Greg these things? – but his mind was calm. His fingers flexed, pressing into Greg’s and releasing again.

“What happened next in this dream?” Greg asked, his voice shaking slightly.

Mycroft cast about for the right words. “Your hands,” he began, “on my arms.” Greg’s hands started moving, twisting to caress Mycroft’s palms, finger tips dragging lightly up to his wrists.

“Gentle like this?” Greg asked, and Mycroft nodded, his eyes drifting closed as the memory of his dream melded together with reality. The sensation was the same; the rough fingertips tracing patterns over the thin skin of his inner arms, raising goose bumps and sending the familiar electricity through his body.

“What now?” Greg prompted, his mouth so close to Mycroft’s ear. Wordlessly, Mycroft tilted his neck, inviting Greg to explore taut skin. He needed no second invitation, pressing his mouth to a spot just below Mycroft’s jaw. In the dream, Mycroft had groaned. In reality too he could not control the wanton sound that tore from his mouth. The difference was Greg’s reaction, his answering groan doubling Mycroft’s arousal. It was need and want and the iron control of an experienced lover. Hearing that sound from Greg, heralding his own arousal at this situation gave Mycroft a boldness he never would have thought he possessed.

“Keep making noise,” Mycroft parroted Greg’s dream-words, his voice rasping and low. “I want to know what you like.” His hands formed fists as the gentle fingers gripped his forearms, reality finally veering away from the dream. Mycroft followed the final steps, pressing momentarily back against Greg before turning and breaking Greg’s grip. The sight of him gave Mycroft pause. Greg looked two steps from lost – eyes wide, lips parted and panting. Their eyes locked, and there was no time for analysis; mouths met as hands reached and gloriously, Greg pressed Mycroft into the bench, just as he had done in the dream. That was the moment that had sent such a throb of desire through Mycroft it had woken him up; the same sensation draw another deep groan this time, his head dropping back as he held Greg tightly. The incredible hot mouth did not break contact, sliding down Mycroft’s throat in a slick trail. Mycroft could feel his own erection throbbing as it pressed into Greg; a similar bulge dug insistently into the crease of his hip.

“I like this,” Greg murmured, “I like all of this.” Mycroft groaned again at the words, his hands pulling restlessly at Greg’s clothes. He was too frantic to concentrate on buttons and coordination; he couldn’t even recall what Greg had been wearing. It felt rough under his fingers, and there wasn’t a fastened collar. Pyjamas? As Greg slid his lips down the side of Mycroft’s face and started paying copious attention to his neck, the wondering about Greg’s clothes evaporated. Mycroft found himself hanging on, groaning obscenely at the trail of cool fire Greg was leaving. His blood was hot, sparkling as it passed Greg’s mouth; the huff of breath over the wetness provided the cooling sensation. Trying to separate the sensations was impossible, the opposite temperatures swirling around, making his mind stutter as he coped with them.

“God, Mycroft,” Greg muttered, his voice barely pushing through the haze of desire. “Your skin…” he groaned, licking a wide stripe up the tendon in Mycroft’s neck. Mycroft shivered violently, fingers digging into Greg’s shoulders. There were no words for this, no way of telling Greg of the overwhelming relief, the _finally finally,_ the fear of rejection that had vanished with Greg’s first touch. _Greg wants this._ He remembered Greg’s words. _He’s wanted it for a while._

Without pause he pulled away, ducking to look Greg in the eye. When those hooded brown eyes looked into his, Mycroft said with certainty, “Come to bed with me.”

Greg groaned, pressing his forehead to Mycroft’s. “Oh, God yes.”


	5. Chapter 5

They stumbled up the stairs, Mycroft pulling Greg along behind him. He knew if he stopped, if there was a moment of thought, he would lose his nerve. As sure as he was that Greg wanted him, there was a difference between wanting something without knowing it fully, and being faced with the stark reality. Mycroft was realistic about his body. Though he worked hard to eat well and run often, it could hardly be called attractive. Best to distract Greg, then, lest he change his mind.

Pushing through Mycroft’s bedroom door, Greg finally gained his footing, sliding arms around Mycroft once again from behind, nuzzling his neck, taking full advantage of the lack of collar and tie. Mycroft groaned, tilting his head to expose more skin. When Greg’s hand tugged on the tie of his dressing gown, Mycroft turned, recklessly allowing it to pool on the floor as he kissed Greg deeply. This time he was (slightly) more in control, and he could feel the fabric under his exploring fingers – a t shirt, then. As Greg pressed against him, Mycroft took the opportunity to slide his hands slightly lower, resting in the dip of Greg’s spine, fingers barely brushing his arse. Greg, whose hands were cupping Mycroft’s face, angling his head as they kissed, gasped.

“God, yes, grab my arse,” he managed, pushing his hips once again into Mycroft. Needing no further encouragement, Mycroft slid his hands lower, pressing his own body into Greg’s, gripping the firm muscle beneath his fingers. Part of his brain supplied _flannel pyjama trousers, no pants_ , the rest added _oh god oh god_. Mycroft found himself making odd little whimpering noises as Greg’s hands pulled him in so their bodies pressed together from chest to knee. It was clear from the unconscious frotting that Greg was as turned on as Mycroft; the feel of his cock sliding against Mycroft’s was wonderful. For a few moments the kissing was abandoned as they lost themselves to the sensation spiralling outward from their groins. Mycroft knew he was panting like an out of form runner, the sound loud in his ears, and he hoped Greg wasn’t wishing he’d stop. It was only when Greg spoke, voice as breathless as Mycroft’s, that he realised the counterpoint to his own harsh breathing had been Greg’s.

“Fuck, we are wearing too many clothes.” Greg’s voice was low and rich with a thread of desperation as he pulled back a little, creating enough space for trembling fingers (he’s trembling? Mycroft thought in amazement). They fumbled with Mycroft’s buttons until, with a grunt of frustration Greg gripped the hem and tugged upwards, pulling the shirt over Mycroft’s head. In another swift motion he’d done the same to himself, leaving them shirtless. Before Mycroft could move to cover himself or otherwise apologise for the state of his torso, Greg was moving in, and the feeling of so much warm skin against his own tore the words from Mycroft’s throat as a moan instead.

“I know,” Greg muttered, mouthing kisses along Mycroft’s collarbone. Much as Mycroft wanted to explore, to push Greg back against the door and catalogue every morsel he could find, the dynamic had shifted, and Greg was leading proceedings now. His hands roved over Mycroft’s shoulders and back, gentle as he explored. It wasn’t long until he found a sensitive spot at the base of Mycroft’s neck and stars exploded in Mycroft’s brain. He gripped Greg’s shoulders, throwing his head back as Greg sucked and licked at the skin. Mycroft was fairly sure there would be a mark in the morning, but not only would it be covered by his clothing, he found he didn’t care in the least. When Greg dipped lower, his tongue pressing along pale skin to circle one of Mycroft’s nipples, he felt his knees buckle, Greg’s strong arms instinctively holding him up.

“Let’s lie down for a bit, shall we?” Greg murmured into his chest, settling Mycroft on the mattress and resuming his attentions. Mycroft gave himself up to the sensations, the idea of covering his skin now absurd – why on earth would he deny Greg access to any part of him? Clearly this was his purpose in life, and Mycroft was not one to stand in the way of a man’s fate. He knew he was moaning, knew Greg had brought his nipples to hard peaks before continuing lower.

When Greg paused, raising his head to Mycroft’s, it took a moment before Mycroft was able to open his eyes to see what was happening.

“I’m not sure…was there something you’d like to do in particular?” Greg asked. He looked beautiful, Mycroft’s brain thought without censure. Wild and rough, but there was beauty in the dark eyes and wide mouth. Mycroft had a sudden urge to consume him, to bring him in and see him beg, to give him the same exquisite pleasure he had just bestowed on Mycroft.

“Come here,” Mycroft said, surprised at the growl that erupted from his mouth. When Greg came down on him in a bruising kiss, Mycroft shifted his hips, flipping Greg, pinning him to the bed. He took full advantage of the gasp of surprise; thrusting his tongue into Greg’s mouth, tasting and exploring with abandon. Mycroft’s knees were straddling Greg, pressing him into the mattress as he controlled the kiss. Greg didn’t seem to mind, writhing and groaning as Mycroft took charge.

“I do have one idea,” Mycroft whispered in Greg’s ear. That was an understatement, of course – he had imagined dozens of scenarios, but there was one he wanted more than any of the others. Taking a deep breath, he pulled back, looking Greg in the eye. “I want you to come down my throat.” Greg’s eyes went wide at the explicit request, but Mycroft held up one finger in a ‘wait’ motion. “I want your fingers inside me when you do it.” There was a flicker of confusion – perhaps the logistics did not present themselves to Greg as readily – but he nodded anyway, the general idea clearly appealing. Mycroft kissed him again, deeply, and Greg’s arms wound around him, pressing their bodies close. They kissed until Mycroft’s face was tingling, his lips singing with the rush of blood. He pulled back, giving Greg a deliberately heated look as he opened the bedside drawer, scrabbling for the bottle he kept there. Greg’s hands on his arse, holding him steady as he ground slowly upwards, were responsible for the scrabbling; Mycroft never scrabbled for anything. Returning with his prize, Mycroft slipped lower, his arse moving out of Greg’s reach as he snared the waistband of Greg’s trousers, tugging them lower. His stomach flipped as he saw he had been correct earlier – no pants. Greg’s cock was rigid, flushed dark and waiting for Mycroft. Mycroft left Greg to kick off his pyjamas as he kissed along Greg’s hip, watching with fascination as the cock beside his face twitched in his direction as though begging for attention. Mycroft slid his head sideways, licking a wide line up the side of Greg’s cock; it jumped away, the deep groan from above adding confirmation that Greg was ready. It was a little awkward, manoeuvring on the bed, but Mycroft continued to kiss and lick at Greg’s skin, the slightly salty taste of his hips and lower abdomen a precursor to what he knew he would find when he finally wrapped his lips around Greg’s cock. It was leaking, he could see; but if he didn’t move now, there was no way the rest of his idea would come to fruition.

Mycroft sat beside Greg and opened the lube. He squirted some on his own palm before handing it to Greg.

“How…” Greg asked, but Mycroft silenced him with a raised eyebrow. His confidence was back, and a small detached part of his brain watched in amazement as Mycroft’s eyes never left Greg’s even as he lowered his own pyjamas and pants, kicking them off and kneeling up beside Greg. He was exposed, but it was the softness of his belly he was most aware of, despite the urgency of his erection, both of which were displayed in front of Greg to look at as he pleased.

“God, you’re…” Greg’s voice trailed off, one hand trailing along Mycroft’s thigh. Mycroft shuddered, closing his eyes for a moment, basking in the trust and desire so prevalent in the atmosphere. Greg’s hand wandered further up, and Mycroft forced himself to stay still as warm fingers pressed into his hip, then trailed light as feathers across his stomach, brushing the head of his cock. A tiny moan, a minute kick of his hips, but Mycroft gritted his teeth, opening his eyes to see Greg’s fascinated gaze on his body. This was more intimate even than what he’d planned, and the goose bumps rose across his body. Finally Greg wrapped his fingers around Mycroft’s cock, the large hand covering so much, _so much_ , and he stroked once, twice, root to tip, before pulling away.

“We’d better get started if you had a plan,” Greg’s voice sounded even more desperate than before, Mycroft registered.

He smirked, watching Greg with the lube. From the ease with which he handled it, there was no doubt that Greg had done this before; it made Mycroft’s cock throb, his buttocks clench at the knowledge that soon, very soon, one or more of those slick fingers would be inside him. Kneeling beside Greg’s waist, Mycroft faced his feet, leaning forward, arse in the air. As Greg realised what Mycroft had in mind, Mycroft heard him say, “oh, fuck,” before Mycroft licked the bead of pre come from his cock. The jerk of pelvis was instinctive, and Mycroft pressed his hands against Greg’s hips, turning to give the detective a knowing look. Greg had stuffed a pillow behind his head, and his eyes were fixed on Mycroft’s arse. Mycroft knew it was overwhelming, seeing your partner so close and open. Greg would have a clear view of his perineum and arse, stretched open and presented for his perusal. As Mycroft moved, his heavy balls and cock would swing a little, offering tantalising peeks to the supine detective. He was exposed in an even more explicit manner than earlier, yet this felt less of an emotional risk. He was about to do something he had once been very, very good at. And if Greg could manage a finger or two inside him, there was an excellent chance Mycroft would come, too.

Turning back, Mycroft took Greg’s cock in his mouth, the long forgotten press of the head against the roof of his mouth sending a bolt of recognition through him. He moaned hard, knowing how the vibrations would feel; Greg’s groan told him it was as good as he’d planned. Using his slick hand, Mycroft rubbed over Greg’s balls, fingers sliding on the soft skin of his perineum before coming back up to cup his balls again, tugging lightly. His tongue wrapped around Greg’s cock, swirling slowly, teasing him; it was just as much about figuring Greg out as anything else right now. He set to it, varying the speed, adding his hand to the base where his lips could not reach, twisting, licking up the vein that pumped along one side. Greg was writhing and gasping, one hand resting on Mycroft’s head, but Mycroft wanted more.

“Touch me,” he said, pulling his mouth away. He turned again to look at Greg. Hooded eyes looked back, a flash of guilt showing as he registered Mycroft’s words. Immediately Greg’s hand trailed up Mycroft’s thigh, moving intently. Mycroft allowed his head to drop, anticipating the touch he’d been craving, relaxing the muscle he knew would clench involuntarily. When Greg’s fist gripped his cock instead he groaned, the warm wetness making Greg’s hand slide fast over his engorged prick. He felt himself canting forwards until the fist stopped, slipping backwards, over his balls and upwards with clear intent. They disappeared briefly, the snick of the bottle telling Mycroft what was happening, and when the coolish liquid touched right behind his balls, he groaned, “please, Greg, please…” It was rare for him to beg, but there was something about Greg’s touch…Finally, those fingers dragged through the wetness and up, towards his entrance, where he’d been aching for Greg. Nothing could have held in the shout as one finger pressed against the tight muscle; it wasn’t seeking entry, but rubbing tiny circles, teasing. The pleas again fell from Mycroft’s lips; he couldn’t remember the last time he’d been so desperate. He was ignoring Greg’s cock at the moment, though it lay across his cheek; his own desperation ranked far higher in this agonising moment. When the pressure came again, Mycroft groaned with abandon, pressing his body back, drawing Greg in. Over the end of his own vocalisation he heard Greg’s, felt the long forgotten fullness of a person inside his body. As Greg drew out again, only to press back, Mycroft sighed with satisfaction. Pulling himself together somewhat, he turned his head to take Greg’s cock in his mouth again.

It took a few moments to find a rhythm, with both of them so close to being overwhelmed by the sensations. Greg’s hand stuttered and stilled when Mycroft drew him in deep and sucked hard, waves of suction pushing him close to the edge. He gripped Mycroft’s hair in warning, and the suction eased. Likewise, when Greg’s finger was fully inside Mycroft and he twisted it, brushing across his prostate, the buck he gave pulled his mouth away from Greg completely.

“Too much?” Greg asked, hand paused.

“No,” Mycroft replied. “Not enough,” he added a little recklessly. He’d adjusted to Greg’s finger, and he found his body yearning for more. More Greg, pressing into his body, brushing against his prostate, taking him…

“More?” Greg’s question was strangled, the single word an effort.

Knowing it was him, his skill, his touch that had brought Greg to such a point gave Mycroft a burst of confidence. He turned and looked Greg in the eye, deliberately bracketing his face with the cock he’d been sucking on.

“I want two of your fingers inside me, Greg,” the words were awkward in his mouth, but he thrilled at them, at the wanton explicitness of telling someone exactly how they should invade your body. Greg obviously approved, given the look on his face and the press of his cock against Mycroft’s cheek. Mycroft saw his hand reach for the lube again, the snick a loud blast against his breathing. This time he took Greg’s cock deep, holding it against the back of his throat as Greg’s fingers circled his entrance. The groan hurt his throat, it was so primitive; how had he thought it felt full with only one finger, when this sensation existed? Greg’s fingers were wider than his own, stretching his body further. They pressed gently, rocking in and out, advancing a little with each push. Mycroft started moving his hips, the sensation of Greg inside his body, _inside his body_ , too strong to hold back. With a moan he pulled his mouth back a little before sucking on Greg in earnest. No more teasing. One hand drifted lower, rolling Greg’s balls between his fingers as Mycroft’s head bobbed, cheeks hollowing out as he sucked on Greg’s cock. The taste had become far stronger, the pre-come coating the inside of his mouth now, the movement of his hips harder to contain. Mycroft felt Greg’s fingers bottom out inside him, and Greg was scissoring them, stretching Mycroft in the most intimate way. He didn’t stop, tongue moving over the head of Greg’s cock, swirling around it as he felt the already engorged flesh swell, Greg’s balls draw up; he was so close. As he started to call out, “Oh god, yes, Mycroft, oh fuck, oh, oh, fuck…” Mycroft slid his fingers off Greg’s balls to press firmly against his perineum. With a final buck, Greg came hard, the volume of it filling Mycroft’s mouth. He swallowed once, but Greg’s hand spasmed, pressing his fingers against Mycroft’s prostate. Abruptly Mycroft shouted, his mouth coming off Greg as he came abruptly, painting the sheets below him, his body clutching Greg’s fingers in time with his pulsing cock.

When his body was finished, supple and spent, Greg slowly removed his fingers. Mycroft winced at the uncomfortable clench of muscles around nothing; it was a small price to pay for such a remarkable experience. Greg’s hand had flopped to the side, so Mycroft clambered over him to lie on the clean side of the bed, their glistening bodies tangled together as they breathed hard.


	6. Chapter 6

The sound was loud in the otherwise silent room; two sets of lungs working hard to take in enough oxygen, two bodies overwhelmed by their own response. Slowly Mycroft felt his breathing even out, felt Greg’s normalise beside him. The raspy breaths quietened until they were both breathing normally. He’d rolled over onto his back, mirroring Greg; the cool air was bliss on his hot skin. He’d moved far enough that he and Greg were not touching. A no-man’s-land of rumpled sheet lay between them. Mycroft wondered if he dared cross it. As he questioned his courage a reminder of the things he’d said, what he’d asked for, came back to him. Cheeks suffused with pink, he closed his eyes. God, what Gregory must think of him! He had been demanding, inconsiderate…

The self-recriminations faltered as Mycroft felt fingers brush across his hand. They shifted, intertwining with his own, and he felt Gregory shift across the bed.

“Mmm, there you are,” Greg mumbled. Mycroft turned his head to be met with the sleepy, grinning face of one very satisfied Detective Inspector. Panicked, he tried to make his face blank, but the sharper focus and furrowed brow told Mycroft it was too late – his expression had been seen. “Hey, gorgeous, what’s the matter?”

‘I beg your pardon?” Mycroft asked.

“What?” Greg asked.

“Did you just…what did you call me?”

“What, gorgeous?” Greg grinned again, though it faded quickly to be replaced by the frown again. “Sorry, it just slipped out.”

“I’ve never had an affectionate term directed at me,” Mycroft admitted.

Greg raised his eyebrows. “Really?” he shifted again, moving closer, watching his fingers disengage from Mycroft’s hand and trail up his arm in a random swirl. “It seemed like you might have had some experience with men, though.”

“True.” Mycroft admitted. He didn’t elaborate.

“Look, you don’t have to-” Greg started, but Mycroft cut him off.

“I started university when I was 15.” Mycroft told him. “I didn’t move into student housing until my third year, when I finally came of age; my parents disagreed but the commute was a waste of time.” He didn’t tell Gregory that by his third year he was working on his first doctorate; it had been a fight to even be accepted for the program, and his ongoing enrolment required a standard which even he found it difficult to hold his work. “I found it problematic making friends, and to be honest, I was curious.”

“So you experimented.” Greg said.

“Yes. Quite a lot, actually. My parents would have been horrified.” Mycroft knew his face was still pink, but he was almost through the worst of it now. “I was quite promiscuous for a period of time. It was interesting, certainly physically satisfying but I felt little emotional attachment so I decided to concentrate on my studies instead. There have been a few since then. Not many.”

“And no one called you sweetheart,” Greg whispered. Mycroft shook his head, answering the question and hoping to shake off the sudden and irrational urge to cry.

“Well, I can go with sweetheart instead of gorgeous if you like,” he continued, the feather light touch of his finger still tracing the shape of Mycroft’s collarbone, “or just Mycroft, if that’s better.”

“Whatever you prefer is fine,” Mycroft replied automatically.

“Oh no,” Greg said, his tone jovial and steely at the same time. “You’ll make a decision, Mycroft. You can change your mind, of course, but right now, tell me. What do you want me to call you? Only when we’re alone, of course.”

The very idea made Mycroft shiver, but he forced himself to answer honestly. “Either of the…terms of endearment would be…fine.” He managed.

“Okay, gorgeous. Thank you,” said Greg. He pressed a kiss to Mycroft’s shoulder.

“So does this…what does this mean?” Mycroft asked.

“What do you want it to mean?” Greg replied. When Mycroft turned a frustrated look his way, he grinned. “It’s frustrating, isn’t it?” His smile faded. “If it were up to me, after this house arrest is over, I’d like to keep seeing you.” Mycroft’s heart beat fast in his chest.

“Why?” he asked without thinking.

Gregory appeared to have been expecting the question. He replied evenly, “Because I have been waiting for an opportunity to get to know you better, ever since that first crime scene. This,” he waved one hand around, indicating Mycroft’s flat, “seems to have been the perfect opportunity. And I’ve come to see you’re funny, and considerate and you make an effort to take an interest in what other people like. And,” Gregory’s grin turned mischievous, “you look great in your running tights.”

Mycroft groaned, covering his face with one hand.

“Is that a yes?” Greg asked.

“You want to…really?” Mycroft asked.

“Really.”

Mycroft swallowed hard. “You didn’t mind…I was quite insistent.” Greg’s confusion morphed quickly into amusement.

“You mean was it a problem when you told me exactly what you wanted and proceeded to give me an incredible blow job?” His amusement wasn’t at Mycroft’s expense, thank goodness. It was…fond?

“Mycroft, you can be as insistent as you like.” His eyes dropped to Mycroft’s mouth and he added, “The thoughts I’ve had about that mouth of yours are pretty explicit.” Mycroft felt his eyebrows rise in astonishment. Reflexively, he licked his lips. Greg’s eyes narrowed. “You did that on purpose.”

For some inexplicable reason, Mycroft felt a giggle bubble up in him. “I did not, Gregory,” he said. Deliberately, he ran his tongue over his bottom lip, sucking it into his mouth and humming at the sensation.

“Mycroft!” Greg protested.

“What?” Mycroft asked innocently. What had happened to his discomfort? The slightest indication that Gregory was interested in him, positively affected by his behaviour, and he turned into a tease. The thought drifted away as Greg lifted his hand to run his fingertip along Mycroft’s lip, now wet with saliva. Without hesitating Mycroft leaned forward and took Greg’s finger into his mouth, sucking hard and swirling his tongue around it like it was Greg’s cock. The groan was loud and wanton, and Mycroft could not help smiling around his mouthful.

“That was on purpose,” Mycroft told him, allowing the finger to slip out of his mouth. “Just so you know the difference.”

“Speaking of difference,” said Greg, eyes still flicking between Mycroft’s mouth and eyes, “What the heck was that about?”

“I have no idea,” Mycroft confessed. “I believe you are the catalyst for this behaviour.”

“Oh, am I?” Greg grinned. “Well okay, then.” His smile was so broad and genuine that Mycroft could not help but return it. “Not to change the subject too dramatically,” said Greg, hitching his hips closer to Mycroft and making it clear that he was interested in catalysing more of Mycroft’s explicit behaviour, “how likely is it that Anthea would arrive without notice?”

“Anthea?” Mycroft repeated. Gregory’s actions did not match his words – was he somehow under the impression that Anthea might be involved in this?

“I was just thinking,” Greg murmured, lowering his head to press kisses along Mycroft’s collarbone, “about the dream you had. About you and I. In the kitchen.” As he ventured further towards the base of Mycroft’s throat, Greg eased himself up, one leg over Mycroft’s, tangling their legs and settling their bodies intimately together. Though neither was fully hard, the feel of such close contact was exquisite, and Mycroft groaned.

“K-kitchen?” he stammered.

“Mmmmm,” hummed Greg. “I was thinking we could explore your flat. Make full use of our time here.” He raised his head to grin at Mycroft. “But not if we might have an unexpected audience.” Mycroft was about to reply when Greg ducked his head to lick at a nipple.

“I can-OH,” he cried, grabbing Greg’s head. There were lips, and tongue and maybe, was that… “Oh, god,” groaned Mycroft. Teeth, definitely teeth, he thought dazedly. When Greg finally released him, Mycroft was almost begging, his cock most certainly hard and rocking unconsciously against Greg’s.

“Anthea?” Greg prompted him.

“Anthea.” Mycroft repeated. “I can change the settings to require confirmation of entry from within.” The string of words took all his attention and he used the fingers still clutching silver hair to pull Greg’s mouth down to his. The kissing was exquisite, as it had been earlier; the feel of Gregory’s hips against his, rutting like teenagers gave Mycroft a rush he had not felt in a long time, if ever. He doubled his efforts, hooking one leg around Greg’s and attempting to flip him.

“Nope,” Greg growled, the counter effort taking Mycroft’s hands wide. Greg took both his wrists and they froze, staring at each other. “Let’s consider these restrained, shall we?” Greg murmured, bringing Mycroft’s hand together over his head and pressing them into the pillow. At his stuttering nod, Mycroft was rewarded with Greg’s lips sliding down his neck once more. Fingers gripping into the soft fabric he closed his eyes, allowing Greg to explore, to take control. With his eyes closed the sensations were heightened, but with so much data it swirled together, a mix of coarse and smooth, gentle and a little rough, pulling him in tighter and tighter until he came, his shout ripped from his throat, the only sound louder than the blood rushing in his ears. Seconds later Greg collapsed beside him, and Mycroft drifted into sleep.

+++

 “So, you’ll change the security settings so Anthea can’t barge in on us, then?” Greg asked, leaning on the bench with a smug grin on his face. Waking to a crusted mess on both of them had been a-bit-not-good, Greg had declared. A shower and clean clothes each and they’d meet again in the kitchen. Greg had wanted to join Mycroft in the shower, but the rumble of both their stomachs at that point had given Mycroft the strength to refuse him and point out the bacon and eggs waiting to be cooked in the kitchen.

“Certainly,” Mycroft replied. He put down the bowl he was cleaning, dried his hands and walked to the entrance. It took him less than two minutes to add the additional level of security. “Done,” he announced, unable to resist breaking into a smile when he saw how delighted Gregory was at the news.

“So where first, then?” Greg asked.

“Where fir…Gregory are you suggesting we start, ‘christening the place’, as you so eloquently put it, right now?” Mycroft asked.  
“Well, not until after breakfast, actually,” Greg conceded. “But it’s always good to have a plan. Especially since we don’t know how long we might be here.” His expression turned thoughtful. “We need to prioritise a list. The most important places first.”

“It sounds as though you believe there will be little chance of sex once we’re released,” Mycroft noted, setting out utensils to make breakfast.

Greg shot him a look. “By the time we’ve both been debriefed and you’ve dealt with whatever needs covering up or bribing to disappear, who knows how much time will have passed.” He put on a pathetically earnest face. “I might die from lack of sex by then.”

“I seriously doubt that, Gregory.”

“But how do you know?” Greg asked. He walked around the bench to stand right behind Mycroft. “And since when do you call me Gregory?”

“Is that a problem?” Mycroft asked. He could not suppress the shiver as Greg pressed against his body. He wondered if he would ever have someone approach him in a kitchen again without thinking of that dream…

“Not as such,” Greg replied, dipping his head to kiss Mycroft’s ear, “but nobody calls me Gregory. Not even my mum.”

“Would you prefer I don’t?” Mycroft asked, smiling as Greg’s arm slid around his waist.

“Actually, if the new security’s in place,” Greg growled, “I’d rather prefer you did.”

Mycroft’s heart leapt into action, thrumming fast to keep up with his suddenly gasping lungs. “I’ll bear that in-” he cut himself off with a gasp, triggered by Greg’s hands wandering lower, bracketing his groin, thumbs above, fingers brushing his inner thighs.

“Maybe you should do more than that,” Greg suggested. His fingers rubbed tiny circles, neither approaching nor moving away.

“Ah, I will.”

“You will…” Greg left an expectant silence.

“I will, Gregory,” gasped Mycroft. At the sound of his name, Greg sucked hard into Mycroft’s neck at the same time his hands swooped inwards onto Mycroft’s cock. One hand moved lower, cupping his balls; the other slid up and into his pyjama trousers, palm rubbing a little roughly across his slit before grasping his length.

“Good,” Greg whispered as Mycroft braced his hands on the bench, supporting himself as he shivered. Greg was still pressing into him, his own erection now pressing insistently into Mycroft’s arse. Mycroft rocked back, Greg’s cock sliding along his arse; he rocked forwards and Greg’s hands were there.

“Aaaarhhhh,” Mycroft moaned. Greg had caught on to what he was doing now, moving his own hips into Mycroft, encouraging him with hot breaths in his ear, gentle moans as he watched Mycroft’s arousal grow. Between Greg’s cock and his hands and the very presence of him all around, Mycroft was astonished how quickly he felt the desire gathering in his pelvis. It tightened with every stroke, every whisper of encouragement that ghosted across his earlobe.

“Oh,” Mycroft heard himself groan, the words tearing out of him as he gripped the bench, thrusting into Greg’s fist, “oh, yes, Gregory, yes, yes, oh, Gregory, oh,” and with a last shout he came, sparks shooting through his body as the knot in his pelvis exploded. Greg’s hands slowed, his hips relaxing, the sounds in Mycroft’s ear now praise and gratitude and admiration.

When he finally opened his eyes, blinking in the light, Mycroft felt Greg’s arms still around him.

“You okay, gorgeous?” Greg’s voice sounded in his ear.

“Mmmm,” Mycroft managed. He swallowed and tried again, turning around to face Greg. “Yes. Thank you.”

Greg chuckled, his arms loosely around Mycroft. “No need to thank me, gorgeous. Hardly a job of work, watching you like that.” Mycroft felt his face flame and he cringed, but Greg appeared to be serious.

“Well,” Mycroft cleared his throat. “Breakfast, then?”

“Sounds great.” Greg agreed. He leaned in, gaze heavy with intent. “Then we complete the deflowering of this room.”

“Oh we certainly will, _Grégoire_ ,” Mycroft replied, holding his gaze and extending one hand to grip Greg’s erection. He emphasised the French pronunciation of Greg’s name, gambling that if Gregory was good, _Grégoire_ was better. It paid off. Greg’s eyes darkened and he bucked into Mycroft’s hand.

“Breakfast first, though,” Mycroft said, smirking. “You start, I’ll go and clean up.”


	7. Chapter 7

Breakfast was full of heavy silences and Mycroft found himself completely side-tracked by the sight of Greg - _Gregory_ eating. He’d always considered it a mundane task, often an inconvenience, but somehow when Gregory did it there was a level of pornographic fascination he’d never noticed before. While Mycroft ate his breakfast with a knife and fork, Gregory had made a pair of sandwiches. The egg and bacon grease running down his hands should have been repellent. In reality, several times Mycroft found himself staring as Gregory licked the food from his fingers, chasing it down his wrist, apparently unconcerned with the effect he was having on Mycroft. He did make an attempt to hide it but Mycroft could tell from the slight smirk on Gregory’s face that he was all too aware of what he was doing. As soon as he’d forced down enough of his meal to pass muster, Mycroft pushed his plate aside.

“Gregory,” he said carefully. Greg didn’t speak, but raised one eyebrow, an amused eye meeting Mycroft’s as he bit into his sandwich, egg yolk running down his palm. He ignored it, still holding Mycroft’s gaze. “Gregory,” Mycroft repeated, his voice a hoarse whisper.

“Mmmm?” Greg replied, putting his sandwich down and reaching up to lick at the egg.

“Wait,” Mycroft said, reaching out and taking Greg’s arm. He leaned over the table, bringing his mouth to Greg’s wrist, sucking at the drop of yolk. He tasted the egg and inhaled, smelling body wash and bacon grease along with the HP sauce Greg had so liberally doused on his breakfast. Mycroft was concentrating on Greg, hearing his breathing become rough, the small muscles in his hand twitching as Mycroft’s tongue started to follow the egg up his hand. He moved deliberately slowly, stopping frequently to swallow, allowing himself to hum in appreciation. When he reached the webbing between Gregory’s thumb and forefinger he felt a knot of scar tissue. Running his tongue over the burr, Mycroft followed the shape of it, feeling the unevenness.

“What happened here?” Mycroft asked, speaking around his still working tongue.

“Rose thorn when I was a kid, got stuck. I wouldn’t let mum take it out, got infected.” Greg’s voice was deep, his sentences truncated as his fingers flexed, caressing Mycroft’s face, the few spots he could reach with his hand incapacitated by Mycroft’s grip. 

“Foolish,” Mycroft murmured, continuing up towards Gregory’s fingers, keeping his touch light and teasing, barely allowing his lips to brush Greg’s skin as he moved upward. His back was sore, legs trembling at the effort to hold the awkward position; he held as still as possible.

“Yeah, I was young…Christ,” Greg swore as Mycroft changed tack, tilting Greg’s hand to suck his fingers in deep. He kept his mouth moving, not giving Gregory a chance to acclimatize to the change, tongue now heavy and wet, pressing between Greg’s fingers, seeking out the last traces of egg and HP sauce. Greg’s gasped curse sent a shot of desire through Mycroft, and he felt his cock twitch in response. He sucked harder for a moment, receiving a strangled groan for his trouble before letting Greg’s fingers go. Mycroft sat down, subtly stretching his back and making no effort to keep the smug smile off his face. Greg’s hand had thumped to the table, and he slumped in his chair, face dazed.

“What the hell was that?” Greg asked him hoarsely.

“A preview, if you will,” Mycroft replied, deliberately pitching his voice low and pinning his gaze on Gregory. He was slowly coming to see that with Greg he could be far bolder than he’d ever thought he had the ability to be. To his continued amazement, Greg not only tolerated it, he encouraged it.

“Preview, hey?” Greg said. Mycroft could almost see his mind working, wondering if Mycroft was offering a similar experience to that they had shared earlier, or something else. The unknown must have been too much, but Mycroft hoped it was a little of his own flickering tongue licking his lips that drove Greg to blurt, “of what?”

“Would you prefer a description, or should I show you?” Mycroft’s question caught Greg off guard, and he enjoyed watching Gregory consider the options. It would be an interesting test of which Greg preferred – being surprised or listening to Mycroft speak.

“Tell me,” Greg said hoarsely.

Mycroft tilted his head, considering Greg as his mind raced. What to say, and how to phrase it…

“That was a preview of exactly how my tongue is going to explore the size and shape of your cock again, _Gregoire_ ,” Mycroft said without taking his eyes from the dark brown one opposite. “You won’t have to concentrate on me, this time. Nothing to do but feel what I am doing to you. I’m going to trace every centimetre of skin, learn every sensitive spot with my mouth and fingers. I want to record exactly how you gasp and moan when I press with the tip of my tongue versus my finger,” here he trailed that same finger over Greg’s wrist, feather light then firmer, listening with satisfaction to the sharp gasp, “how fast you breathe when I look you in the eye as your cock stretches my mouth wide. I want to see your face change when I take the head of your cock into the back of my throat, when you feel me swallow around you.” Mycroft swallowed, fascinated by Greg’s face, flushed at the graphic description. He stood up again, leaning over the table, his own straining erection now obvious. It was just as arousing to speak as to hear, and Mycroft deliberately breathed in Greg’s ear for a long moment before delivering the final statement rough and hot right into Greg’s ear. “In essence, I’m going to suck you ‘til you come down my throat,” he said, sitting back down with a smirk of satisfaction. Sitting back in his chair, Mycroft assessed Gregory. His mouth was hanging open, pupils dilated, eyes fixed on Mycroft as though he was the most mesmerising orator on the planet.

“Fuck…” Greg breathed, then closed his mouth and swallowed hard. He didn’t move, apparently frozen in place. Mycroft, veins still pumping with his newfound sexual confidence, pushed his chair back and collected their plates from the table, dumping them in the sink. When he turned back, Gregory was still sitting in his seat, though he’d now turned to watch what Mycroft was doing. A short pause as Mycroft considered options (floor would be too hard on his knees, bedroom too far away – table, then) before he tugged on Greg’s arm, pulling him up to stand. Without finesse Mycroft manhandled him to sit on the edge of the table, moving to stand so close his toes were under the table, his still straining erection pressing against Greg’s.

“You might still have been hungry for breakfast,” Mycroft purred, bracing his hands on the table slightly behind Greg’s hips, so he had to lean back a little, allowing Mycroft’s chest to press into his own, “but I had bigger things on my mind.” He shot Greg the most filthy amused look he could muster before leaning in, licking a wide, fast stripe up Greg’s neck to his ear, the groan reverberating from Greg’s throat right into his mouth. “Deflowering, remember?” Without waiting for a reply, Mycroft‘s hands were at Greg’s trousers and it was mere seconds before his cock was released, standing out from his hips as though presenting itself to Mycroft. With another wicked smile, Mycroft went about doing exactly what he’d promised Greg. He used his tongue in every way he could conceive, licking wide and wet, pressing gently and then with more pressure, tongue and lips and fingers, meticulously cataloguing every moan, every quiver of Greg’s hips. From the sound of Greg’s breathing and the increasingly desperate, tiny thrusts of his hips he was getting close. Little bursts of bitter salt as Mycroft’s tongue investigated every part of the head, his fist moving steadily along the shaft of Greg’s cock, feeling the small pulses in time with Greg’s moans. He looked up to see Greg’s eyes fixed on him and immediately dropped his mouth over Greg’s length, moving his hand out of the way, feeling his lips stretch as his mouth filled, pressing his tongue up as the taut skin slid past. Mycroft could see Greg’s eyes grow even wider as he took more and more into his mouth, until at last he felt the brush of soft pressure against the back of his throat. He groaned, knowing Gregory would be able to feel it. If he’d been able to smile he would have, settling instead for pressing his fingers into Greg’s thighs, feeling the pressure of the taut muscles under his fingertips. Time for the last part of his promise. _In essence, I’m going to suck you ‘til you come down my throat._ Sealing his lips, Mycroft made good on his promise, sucking relentlessly along Greg’s cock, pushing down, fighting his gag reflex at the pressure against the back of his throat. Over the pounding pulse in his ears Mycroft heard Gregory curse loudly and he fought to keep a steady rhythm, short and tight, fingers flexing hard, the thrill of Greg’s undoing making his blood throb low in his abdomen, fighting for attention against the overwhelming sensations all over his body.

Suddenly Greg’s steady litany of prayers and curses stopped, replaced by a stuttering, “Oh…oh…My…Mycroft…oh…” His hips matched the staccato pattern and Mycroft felt the cock in his mouth swell impossibly bigger before the first shot hit the back of his throat. Mycroft’s fingers smoothed along Greg’s thighs, offering what encouragement he could as Greg came hard in his mouth. He swallowed several times, the aftershocks adding their smaller volume before he finally felt Greg’s body sag. Mycroft allowed the softening cock to slide out of his mouth, resisting the vulgar urge to wipe his mouth with the back of his hand. His own desire was still present, though now in the background; the overwhelming amount of information his mind had processed had pushed it aside for the time being.

Straightening, Mycroft looked at Gregory, affection and amusement bursting through him. Greg had collapsed backwards onto the table and was breathing hard, eyes closed as he gathered himself. “I can feel you looking at me,” Greg murmured without opening his eyes.

“I am,” Mycroft confirmed.

“That was…fucking amazing, actually,” Greg said with a huff of laughter.

“Good,” Mycroft murmured, hands still resting on Greg’s thighs. He was content to watch Greg come down, seeing his breathing slow, the high colour slowly fading from his cheeks.  It was just as fascinating to catalogue the dissipation of Greg’s desire as to see it grow, Mycroft realised.

“Christ,” Greg muttered, struggling himself to a semi-upright position. He tucked himself back into his pants and trousers before looking up into Mycroft’s face. “Hi,” he murmured, close to Mycroft’s mouth, before pressing into a slow kiss. Mycroft’s heart fluttered at the closeness, far more intimate somehow than the previous moments. The sharp, insistent desire melted into a softer connection that filled his whole being. It was such a new sensation, like floating; Mycroft let himself go with it, melding his body with Greg’s as closely as possible.

“Hello,” Mycroft replied when the kiss finally broke. The look in Greg’s eye began soft but soon turned more intense, a wicked grin flickering across his mouth. “Was there something?” Mycroft asked, ignoring the renewed pulsing in his groin. Suddenly the urgency was there again, and he found himself pressing into Gregory again, seeking a friction he had yet to find.

“Oh no, my dear,” Greg said, shifting his hips to stand up. He had to press into Mycroft to do so, and the sudden flare of pressure sent a shot of white hot fire into Mycroft’s body. He groaned as Gregory stood, pulling away; it was clear there was a strategy behind his behaviour and it took all Mycroft’s patience to wait until Greg spoke again.

“If we’re being explicit,” Greg’s voice was low and direct, “and descriptive…” he trailed off, raising his eyebrows in mute query. Mycroft swallowed hard – how on earth would he survive? Yet the very idea of that voice detailing what he wanted to do was too much to resist. He nodded, breath catching as Greg chuckled low in his throat. Mimicking Mycroft earlier, he leaned in, lips brushing Mycroft’s ear as he said, “I want you to bend me over and fill me up, Mycroft.” Mycroft groaned, almost missing the continuation of Greg’s vision, “I want your fingers first, opening me up, sliding inside me. Such long fingers, Mycroft, I want you to press them all the way into me. Make me beg for your cock, Mycroft. We both know I’ll want it, your fingers will be good, but not enough.” Over his own rasping breath Mycroft could feel Greg’s harsh breath in his ear. Clearly this was affecting both of them, he thought dimly.

“You’ll have to hold my hips, slick your cock nice and wet,” Greg continued, his voice even lower now. “Slide it into me, fill me up with you, all the way until your body is right up against mine.” He paused, tilting his head, watching Mycroft swallow hard at the mental image of such a position. He grinned a little before adding, “In essence, I want you to fuck me until I scream.”

That was the final straw for Mycroft who felt his knees give out a little, catching his weight around Greg’s waist, breathing out hard. He felt Greg catch around his shoulder and sagged against his body, his mind offline with the graphic images now overwhelming him.

“Too much, gorgeous?” Greg asked.

For a few long shuddering breaths, Mycroft couldn’t answer. Finally he stood up and looked at Greg. “No,” he replied, “In fact, I have a few ideas of my own.”


	8. Chapter 8

Mycroft closed his eyes, concentrating a careful part of his brain on counting backwards. The rest of his mind was lost to sensation, and he knew if he let it overwhelm him it would all be over far too soon. Leaning forward he felt the press of his skin to Greg’s, the change of angle brushing his fingertips over that sensitive place inside Greg. The buck of his body, pinned against the sofa by Mycroft’s hips and arm, two fingers slowly surging and retreating inside him, made Mycroft groan. He’d been avoiding Greg’s prostate, teasing him; they both knew Mycroft’s fingers would be long enough to reach. The hungry look in those dark eyes when Mycroft had returned from upstairs told him Greg was anticipating this as much as he. The fact that he had been waiting naked, leaning unconcernedly against the sofa supported that supposition. As did the erection standing out from his body like an invitation.

Mycroft had swallowed, eyes travelling down the length of Greg’s body, his cock swelling at the sight of so much tempting skin. His erection had never really abated, and arriving to find such a blatant display only served to bring it back with a vengeance. It had taken him less than a minute to disrobe, discarding his clothes recklessly all over the floor as he reached for Greg. They’d kissed like he imagined teenagers would, hard and messy and desperate until Greg slid his mouth off Mycroft’s to gasp, “I hope you brought lube,” Logically, Mycroft thought that would have driven his desperation to a higher level, the insinuation of more. As he pulled away from Greg, gasping, needing a moment lest he come right there and then, Mycroft took a deep breath, calming himself. If this was going to last – to play out as Gregory had described – he was going to have to be patient. Calm. Well, calmer. Mycroft took another deep breath and looked at Greg. Everything slowed down with that long steady gaze. Mycroft smiled.

Gentle words and hands had followed, calm and close. Mycroft had found the lube, and his finger had found Greg’s entrance; the sense of relief at sinking into him had been echoed in Greg’s shaking breath.

“Oh, God, that’s perfect…” Greg had groaned, and Mycroft kissed him, keeping his movement slow and smooth. When Gregory had begged for more, Mycroft had turned him around; braced against the back of the sofa, Mycroft’s cock pressed into his hip, Greg had spread his feet wide, moaning as two finger slid into his body. Mycroft’s free hand rested on Greg’s shoulder, making periodical long sweeps up and down his back. He’d seen how Gregory reacted when he’d talked to him earlier – both in bed and in the kitchen – and now he murmured praise and nonsense as his fingers slowly worked Greg open. Mycroft didn’t even know what he was saying half the time; he was focussing on Greg, fascinated by the sounds he was making, the sheen of sweat on his skin, wondering at the scars he could see across the smooth back. Words like _hot_ and _tight_ came to mind, but he pushed them back; too vivid an imagination would push him over the edge. It was all Mycroft could do not to rut against Greg’s hip as it was. The counting was working to distract him somewhat, though he should have started at a higher number. Counting down in this scenario was too much like approaching orgasm, Mycroft decided. Time to move things along.

Leaning forward, he waited until his fingers were inside Greg as far as they would go, and he kept them there, scissoring gently, keeping the rhythm deep in Greg’s body.

“You want me to open you up, Gregory,” Mycroft whispered in his ear.

“Yes,” Greg replied, his reply a hoarse gasp.

“Fuck you over this very sofa,” Mycroft clarified, drawing his fingers out before driving them back in.

“Fuck! Yes, please…God…” Greg moaned. Mycroft could see his fingers gripping the sofa, knuckles white, and the sight was oddly stimulating. This Detective Inspector, experienced police officer, was coming apart under him, _him_ , his words, his fingers. Mycroft’s hips moved of their own accord, his cock sliding roughly along Greg’s thigh until he brought it under control.

“I’m not sure we’re there quite yet,” Mycroft told him. He started sliding his fingers out again, pausing at the last band of muscle, spreading them a little. Stretching the muscle ever so slightly. “You remember how big my cock is, Gregory.” In any other context Mycroft would have spontaneously combusted at the idea of making such vulgar remarks. Right now, he knew it was perfect. “Feel it. Reach down…yes,” Mycroft hissed as Greg’s hand fumbled around his hip. He found Mycroft’s cock, wrapped his fingers around it, squeezing the length, pumping once. “Do you think I’ll fit without hurting you?”

“I don’t…know,” Greg gasped as Mycroft’s fingers twisted gently, teasing that band of muscle still. “Don’t _care,_ ” he said. “Please, Mycroft.”

“Hmm, not really sure,” Mycroft replied. His heart was pounding, cock twitching in Greg’s still fist. “Fairly sure I’m at least three fingers’ worth.”

“Okay, yes, just more,” Greg replied, his face still pressed into his arm. Mycroft shifted and Greg’s hand fell from his cock, returning to the back of the sofa. The snick of the lube bottle was loud and sharp against the rough susurrus of their breathing. Mycroft pressed against Greg to compensate for the loss of both his hands; Greg had groaned a protest when his body had been emptied.

“Patience,” Mycroft whispered, dropping the lube back on the sofa where he could reach it. “Fairly sure you asked me to make you beg. Saying please twice does not count.” Taking a deep breath, Mycroft started counting down in his head again, hoping the distraction would work _(One thousand, nine-hundred-and-ninety-seven, nine-hundred-and-ninety-four…)_ as he slipped two fingers, then three into the heat of Greg’s body. He paused, arm shaking at the control needed not to slam into Greg’s prostate and make him come right there.

“Oh, fuck, Mycroft, My, oh…” A steady stream of pants and groans, half words and prayers started from Greg as Mycroft’s fingers pressed into him. The lube that had been running down his fingers no longer seemed excessive; every bit was helping Mycroft’s fingers as they were drawn into Greg’s body. He could feel Gregory trembling now; the muscles were fluttering as he tried to relax himself _(Nine-hundred-and-forty, Nine-hundred…oh Christ…nine-hundred-and-thirty-seven)_. Mycroft swallowed hard, trying to drink in everything without pushing himself over the edge. He could feel the air moving against his cock now and realised Greg’s fist must have spread his own pre-come across his skin. The sensation only heightened his already sky-high arousal, and Mycroft bit his lip. He twisted his hand, pressing further; watching his own body disappear into Greg’s willing open one was remarkable. The demonstration of trust was amazing, almost as heady as the smell of sex he suddenly registered. The lube was slightly chemical, but it was largely overpowered by the sweat of two bodies, the valiant efforts of their deodorants and the base, animal scent of sex. Mycroft’s hand, which had been resting between Greg’s shoulder blades now slid down and around his ribs, seeking his cock, wondering if he was in the same state of desperate arousal. Despite his earlier orgasm it appeared he was; Mycroft’s fingers found hardness, wet at the tip where his thumb automatically slid across the slit.

“Fuck, don’t do that,” Greg gasped. “Too much, too much.” Mycroft didn’t reply, removing his hand back to Greg’s back, marvelling at the control of the man once again. By now Mycroft’s fingers were as deep as they could go; Greg’s body was stretched obscenely around them, impossibly wide, so it seemed. Certainly enough to accommodate Mycroft’s cock. The very idea was enflaming, _(Eight-hundred-and-fifty-nine)_ , and Mycroft continued to twist inside Greg, speaking again into his ear.

“Well from what I can see, and I can see everything,” Mycroft purred, “you’re stretched quite wide, Gregory. Can you feel that?” He spread his fingers infinitesimally, knowing the slighted action would be felt tenfold in such a sensitive place.

“Oh fuck yes, you’re stretching me so wide, Mycroft, please, I need your cock. I can feel your fingers but I want your cock in me,” Greg’s words were practically babble, muffled a little from his still lowered head. Mycroft could hear every word, straining to hear it over the pounding of his heartbeat in his ears.

“Are you sure?” Mycroft asked, brushing his fingers against Greg’s prostate. He waited a moment before adding, “I don’t know if I’m going to be able to do that with my cock. I mean, it will stretch you more, fill you right up. But,” Another brush, another buck of hips, another spout of profane prayers, “you’d lose the certainty of precision.” Five frantic breaths, Greg’s body tense as though waiting for another touch. “Are you sure?”

“Yes, yes, I am, oh please…”

“You don’t want to come like this?” Another touch, firmer; it was a fine line but Greg’s tense body stubbornly refused to come, shaking instead, muscles like granite.

“I want you to come inside me, I want to feel you in me, fucking me, please My, please fuck me, I need your cock, please give it to me, stretch me, fill me, oh please Mycroft, please…”

_(Seven-hundred-and-nine, Seven-hundred-and-six…)_

Well if that wasn’t begging, Mycroft didn’t know what was.

“How can I say no?” Mycroft said. He ran his free hand down Greg’s body again, soothing him. “You’ve been so patient, Gregory, _Grégoire_ , now it’s time.” He slowly drew out his fingers, one hand at Greg’s lower back, feeling the shudder at the sudden emptiness. The sight of his body contracting around nothing, the muscle trying to grip onto empty air was almost his undoing, after everything that had happened. _(Six-hundred…and…something…)_

Mycroft stroked Greg’s back as he reached for the condoms, a small voice asking why, given all they’d already done. He’d grabbed them with the lube intending to talk before anything started. Of course, Greg had been waiting naked, so that hadn’t panned out. While he trusted that Greg would not have knowingly put him at risk, now did not seem like the right moment for that discussion. It would be tidier, if nothing else. His shaking fingers struggled with the packet for a moment before it finally gave and in seconds he was ready, slick and hard, wondering what number he was up to and realising it didn’t matter. Nothing was going to prolong this, once he was buried in Gregory, and only the knowledge that Greg was equally desperate made him not care at all.

Stepping behind Greg, Mycroft ran his hands up Greg’s flank and back, gripping his hip with one hand, looking down their bodies to where his cock was about to replace his fingers. A change in the planes of Greg’s back made him pause, cock at Greg’s entrance. Looking up, Mycroft saw Greg’s head twisted around, looking at him, eyes dark and wild and affectionate and wanting.

“Please…” he said, and Mycroft knew it would be redundant to ask if he was ready. With one fluid movement he pressed forward, feeling Greg brace, pushing back and bearing down as his body accepted Mycroft, drawing him in.

The world shattered. Mycroft’s logical brain examined the pieces.

Heat.

Pressure.

Sound.

A clenching pressure around his cock.

Fingertips pressing against something smooth and hard; gripping as he moved.

Hips rocking in a primitive rhythm.

Panting breaths, burning lungs. Throat raw.

Pleasure like shards of glass, sharp and shining, reflecting light and heat through his body. Pooling deep and thick in his abdomen.

Another voice, Gregory’s voice, hoarse and desperate, calling his name.

And then the pieces smashed, crushed into nothingness by the bloom of white hot ecstasy.

Mycroft the individual was no more. He was part of the universe, the very atmosphere, his atoms divided, the centrifugal force flinging him outwards overwhelming the pull of one atom to the next. The last cohesive thought, the last piece to shatter bore a single idea. _Grégoire_.

***

“Wow.” The single word was the first conscious moment Mycroft experienced. Slowly, he took in other sensory information. He was sitting – lying? – kind-of-sitting on the floor. Cradled by Gregory. Naked. Sweaty. Exhausted.

“Wha…” to his mortification, Mycroft’s voice cracked, and he added observations. Sore throat. Dry mouth. Cramping fingers.

“Pretty sure we both passed out there,” The rumble of an amused voice vibrate through Mycroft. He shook his head a little. He remembered everything up to some nonsense in his head about atoms redistributing. Good grief.

“I know I did,” Mycroft replied, wincing as he tried to swallow. He realised there was a pile of tissues on the floor, obviously used with a condom tied off on top. “Did you…thank you,” he stammered, indicating the pile.

“I’m the one that came all over the back of your sofa.” Greg replied. “And the carpet. Sorry about that.”

“Not a problem,” Mycroft said automatically, though he meant it. Registering the condom, he added, “I had planned on talking about that, but something distracted me when I came down stairs.”

“Mmmm, that would be me, then?” Greg asked, tipping Mycroft’s face up. He smiled and dipped his head to kiss Mycroft.

“Yes, Detective Inspector, I believe so,” Mycroft replied.

Greg regarded him for a moment, the twinkle of amusement in his eyes tinged with affection. “I’m not sure any of that could be considered part of my official duties,” he said. “I can’t speak for your job, of course.”

“Ah, no,” Mycroft said, feeling the blush rise up his face. Now that the heat of the moment was over – nudity notwithstanding – the memory of his words was…uncomfortable to say the least.

“That’s going to be hard to top,” Greg said. “Might be the best sex I’ve ever had.”

“Really, Gregory,” Mycroft admonished him, rolling his eyes.

“What, you think all my partners have made me beg?” Greg asked, teasing. Mycroft shrugged, not meeting Greg’s eyes. He did not want to talk about Greg’s partners. There had practically no conversation about their…this, and the last thing Mycroft wanted was a comparison with past lovers, no matter how long ago they might have been.

“Perhaps now would be an appropriate time to discuss condoms,” he said instead of answering Greg’s question. He cleared his throat. “Despite our previous lack thereof.”

Greg chuckled. “We probably should have already had this conversation, you’re right.” He looked at Mycroft and shrugged. “I’m clean. I figured you would know if you are, and I doubt you’re the kind of bloke that would do anything if you weren’t.”

The simplicity of Greg’s words, the clean honesty and trust behind then rendered Mycroft speechless. He’d not even thought about condoms until he’d seen them in his drawer when he was upstairs. The oversight had sickened him for a moment – what he had done? Where had the considered, careful man he knew himself to be gone? – but upon reflection he had thought almost the same as Gregory.

“No, I am not.” Deciding on truth, Mycroft said, “And neither are you. I was…carried away earlier and did not consider it. On reflection, I came to the same conclusion.” He smiled at Gregory. Mutual trust, then. “Neither of us is that kind of person, I think.”

“Well I’d be fine without them,” Greg murmured, lips pressing to Mycroft’s temple. “If you’d rather, it’s fine with me.”

“No,” Mycroft said. He gave a small chuckle. “I wasn’t sure I’d be able to hold out earlier.”

“It was good, wasn’t it?” Greg agreed.

“Better than sleeping under bridge.” Mycroft said. At Greg’s snort of laughter, he said, “Our cook used to say that when the maids would complain about their work.”

“The maids?” Greg replied.

Mycroft shrugged. “We were comfortable,” he said, fully aware of the understatement. “I always replied I’d heard the Lambeth Bridge wasn’t too bad, and she’d throw her hands up in horror, telling me the only bridge worth sleeping under was Westminster.” He grinned at the memory.

“She sounds like fun,” Greg said.

“She was,” Mycroft replied. He felt them slide into a comfortable silence. When Greg shifted he sat up, conscious of the pressure of his weight on Greg’s body.

“We should eat,” he said, smiling. “And probably dress.”

“I would argue that the dressing is optional,” Greg replied, eyes roving down Mycroft’s body. To his astonishment he felt his cock stir at the hungry look in Greg’s eyes.

“If you are interested in eating, I would suggest clothes are not optional,” Mycroft replied, tugging him to his feet. Greg stood, enfolding Mycroft in an embrace as he rose. Their bodies were warm and the care with which Greg held him made something stir in Mycroft – something decidedly emotional, quite apart from the physical reaction he was already having to Greg’s proximity. As Greg drew breath to speak, Mycroft spoke first through the irrational moment of fear that Greg would say something casual about how convenient this was, the two of them locked up together anyway. A way to pass the time.

“Lunch?” he said. Greg frowned a little, but Mycroft pushed on. “We’ve missed the last day of Crossfit, perhaps that would be a suitable afternoon activity.”

The distraction had worked, Mycroft could see from the smile now crossing Greg’s face. “Sounds good,” Greg said. “Though watching all those bodies in their Lycra is gonna remind me of your running clothes…”

Mycroft rolled his eyes, ignoring the bloom of happiness that twisted in him at the sound of Greg’s laughter.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is dedicated to Libetdawn, whose gentle patience while I get myself sorted has helped this story progress. Thank you. xx


	9. Chapter 9

In the end they watched the whole last day of Crossfit in one go. Kind of. There were food breaks, of course, where Greg cooked and baked and cajoled Mycroft into eating what he’d made. It was astonishing to Mycroft that Gregory had seen his body and yet encouraged him to eat. It was fortunate he still had access to his gym equipment. They’d drunk tea, then coffee. Twice Greg wanted to pause and re-watch the parts they’d missed when the snogging had gotten out of hand, but Mycroft pointed out that there was so much repetition it was hardly necessary.

He _had_ agreed when Greg had missed half an hour cataloguing the freckles on Mycroft’s neck; ‘neck’ had turned into ‘torso’ which had quickly escalated after Greg pretended Mycroft’s nipples were freckles and lavished attention on them until Mycroft had come, rutting against Greg’s hip. The self-satisfied smirk had made Mycroft want revenge, and his hand in Greg’s trousers had needed only moments before he too came in his pants, collapsing on Mycroft with a gasp.

Even at university, Mycroft had never had so much sex. He’d certainly never been so aware of another person before. Despite the number of orgasms he’d experienced in the very recent past, Mycroft still felt a restlessness he’d only ever experienced when he’d missed his run a few days in a row. It was satiated for a while after sex, when he was close to Gregory, and manageable when they were touching, but a small part of Mycroft wondered how long it would last. Surely his body would become accustomed to Greg’s presence?

By the time the medal ceremony was showing, they were kissing again, Greg showing as little interest in the overall results as Mycroft. It was dark outside, though Mycroft had no idea of the time; Einstein had been right with his theory of relativity. Time moved at an entirely different pace when he was with Gregory.

“I am certain we have already christened this sofa,” Mycroft said, groaning as Greg’s fingers skated along the inside of his thigh, teasing him. They’d dressed earlier but the need to explore was as strong in Greg as Mycroft, and their clothes had been removed every time they settled back on the sofa.

“Where next?” Greg asked, smirking as Mycroft groaned again. “I mean, I do have a list, but…” he shrugged, skirting fingers closer to Mycroft’s straining black pants.

“I believe christening each room was your idea,” Mycroft replied. “I would be content to remain here.” Greg hummed in acknowledgement, tracing designs on Mycroft’s skin so the hairs stood up. Mycroft gritted his teeth, holding still as possible as Greg considered the options.

“Is there a bath somewhere?” Greg asked finally.

Mycroft nodded. “My en-suite,” he said.

“Lead on, then,” Greg replied. They both stood, Greg’s hair standing out in all directions. Mycroft wondered if his own looked as completely debauched. Greg’s fingers had spent quite a long time buried there today, so it was likely. His shirt was hanging open, trousers on the floor; Greg wore only his pants and the pyjama trousers he’d pulled on earlier. They made their way slowly up the stairs, never breaking contact; for some reason Mycroft felt as though the decision to move had dampened the urgency of their desire. With the Crossfit to focus on, the intimacies of their day had been tempered somewhat. There had been something else on which to focus, to talk about; the topic of ‘us’ – if there was an ‘us’, Mycroft thought – had never come up. Now, though, a bath – what was more intimate? Nothing to distract, or think about. The only saving grace was that it was likely he wouldn’t have to look into Gregory’s eyes. There would certainly be no defending himself, should Greg ask difficult questions. He had already shown he was adept at reading Mycroft, and it seemed more and more likely there would be some kind of serious conversation in the very near future.

Despite his misgivings about potential conversation, it was lovely to float in the bath with Gregory. The water was hot, Gregory’s body soft behind him. It seemed that they had finally reached saturation point, or perhaps it was simply their bodies having come more in the last two days than nature probably intended. Either way, it was quiet and calm and far gentler than Mycroft was generally able to process. Surely, his yo-yoing mind begged, surely this was more than a way to pass the time? Gregory had admitted he wanted Mycroft, that late night with the bread dough; there had been no mention of emotion, and Mycroft had assumed he was speaking of a strictly sexual desire. As he thought about it, fingers sliding around Gregory’s idly, other moments brought themselves to the front for consideration. There had been looks, moments when Mycroft had thought Gregory would make a comment but had not, merely smiling at him. There had been the almost-conversation about what would happen once they were released; unsurprisingly it had not been finished, the sex getting in the way as it had had a habit to do.

“Mmmm,” Mycroft hummed, considering. His body was relaxing but he could feel his heartrate accelerating as he considered the conversation he and Gregory might have. Must have, at some point. It only now struck Mycroft that the unknown amount of time they had to spend here could end at literally any moment. While he had made an educated guess at the amount of time it would take to find and apprehend the Tasman gang, in reality there were a thousand factors in play over which he had no control. So would it be better to talk now, to bring out their potentially opposite expectations of this, or to leave it until they knew what was happening?

“I can feel your heart, you know,” Greg’s voice came in his ear. Mycroft closed his eyes, wondering if Greg was going to make the choice for both of them, right now. “Whatever it is that’s stressing you out, don’t worry about it okay?” Mycroft couldn’t bring himself to reply. Greg’s hands were moving with his own, now, fingers gliding past each other in the soap water, reassuring caresses soothing his anxieties. “We don’t have to talk about it until you’re ready. Let’s just enjoy this instead.” Mycroft didn’t know if Gregory meant ‘this bath’ or ‘this time’, but his consideration made tears prickle at the back of Mycroft’s eye for the first time in years. Still not certain he could speak, Mycroft instead wound his fingers into Greg’s and squeezed, hoping some of what he was thinking, _I have no idea what we’re doing or if this will last but I think I might want it to_ , and hoped Greg might understand. He felt Greg hum in response, his own fingers tightening in their grip.

“I’m falling asleep here,” Greg murmured in Mycroft’s ear. “Should we get ready for bed, do you think?”

“Yes,” Mycroft made himself say. When the single word made it out without disaster, he breathed out, still grateful Greg could not read what was in his eyes. By the time they had dried and dressed for bed (pyjamas trousers for Mycroft, which Greg copied in a suspiciously un-practiced move – Mycroft suspected he usually slept naked), Mycroft had schooled his face, hopefully even against Greg’s observant self.

“I’d like to sleep here, if that’s okay,” Greg asked, and Mycroft felt a shot of guilt. He must have transmitted some kind of uncertainty for Greg to question the sleeping arrangements. Reaching out, Mycroft wrapped his arms around Greg and walked backwards towards the bed, turning at the last moment to drop Greg onto the bed.

“I sleep on the right,” Mycroft told him, turning out the lights.

“I know,” Greg’s voice came out of the dark. “Furthest from the door. Me too, so I apologise in advance if I end up crowding you.”

“I won’t mind,” Mycroft replied quietly. They settled in the middle for the moment, arms and legs intertwined, and Mycroft allowed himself to be happy in this moment, safe in Greg’s arms.

+++

The next few days were a whirlwind of sex and laughter, two things of which Mycroft had experienced very little in his recent life. He rose the next morning before Greg and dressed for the gym, determined not to let his routine get too out of control. Just as he was finishing his run Greg appeared in the doorway, arms crossed as he watched Mycroft warm down.

“You startled me,” Mycroft admitted after his first glance at the figure in the doorway. Although there had been a lot of nudity, and Greg had expressed his appreciation for every inch of Mycroft, the knowledge that Greg was seeing him in his running tights made Mycroft cringe. He kept his eyes forward (to keep his hips straight so he didn’t twist a knee, he told himself), so it wasn’t until Mycroft stepped off the treadmill that he noticed the expression on Greg’s face and the bulge in his trousers.

“Really?” Mycroft said, barely getting the word out before Greg was on him, kissing hard and pulling their bodies together.

They christened the gym that day, Greg complaining unconvincingly that the heavy petting while watching Crossfit had conditioned him to sex when he saw good looking men in tights. Mutual hand-jobs had done it that time, though Greg visited often when Mycroft completed his run.

In weeks to come, Mycroft would most easily remember snapshots of this time. Cooking. Eating. Sex.

Greg’s tongue in him as he braced himself against the treadmill, tights halfway down his thighs, throat hoarse from shouting his name.

Cooking a roast with all the trimmings, proud of himself for getting the crackling right. Greg’s beaming smile.

Grinning as they baked a cake for Sherlock, giggling as Greg found a use for the extra icing.

Panting as Greg licked the icing off his body, sucking on all the places he was learning Mycroft liked best.

Washing each other after the icing incident, learning that shower blowjobs can go pear shaped if you try to breathe through your nose with water cascading over your head. Laughing with Gregory before rolling wet onto the bed and finishing the blow-jobs there.

Fulfilling a fantasy in his office – Gregory sucking him off from under his desk, the open flies of his most expensive suit the only change to his perfectly adjusted outfit. Gregory didn’t spill a drop.

+++

On the second-to-last morning (the Penultimate Morning, as Mycroft privately titled it later; they didn’t know that at the time, of course), sleepy warm hands had stroked pliant skin into wakefulness. Mycroft had straddled Greg, intending similarity to their first time; instead Greg had pushed pillows behind his head, pressing his tongue into Mycroft as Mycroft panted over his cock, lapping at the pre-come that welled there.

“Race you there,” Greg had said, voice still sleep rough. Mycroft had taken the challenge, sucking Greg deep and using all the knowledge two weeks of near constant sex had given him about Greg’s body. In return, Greg was cheating; employing both hands as well as his mouth. In the end it had taken Mycroft’s thumb inside Greg for him to win; the shaking body under him was proof even before Greg came in his mouth. The feel of it – Greg’s body gone to pieces because of him – brought Mycroft close to the edge and he groaned around Greg’s softening cock. A wide lick across his entrance brought him back; he wanted to see Greg, he realised.

Pulling away, Mycroft spun around, straddling Greg’s chest, pinning his hands against the headboard as he’d discovered Greg liked. Without preamble, Mycroft brought his hips forward, cock brushing Greg’s lips in a clear request. Immediately, Greg opened his mouth and Mycroft pushed inside, relishing the heat around his cock. When his eyes met Greg’s, it was the adoration that pushed him over the edge, the orgasm breaking abruptly as he looked into the wide brown eyes.  Mycroft grunted, hips stuttering their last as his orgasm tapered off. Sighing, he reached down to press his lips to Greg’s forehead before rolling off and releasing his hands. The languid calm flowing over him prevented him holding onto Greg when he got up briefly; the puff of peppermint-y breath on his return was explanation enough. Satisfied, Mycroft rolled over, snuggling into his side as they both drifted back to sleep.


	10. Chapter 10

Hours later, it was breakfast time. Or, as Mycroft amended in his head, the first meal of the day. He’d stopped keeping track several days ago, given how unimportant it was to know the exact time of day. He and Gregory ate when they were hungry, slept when they were tired; there was no need to regulate that. Anthea was the only intrusion on their solitude, and her hours varied wildly. When they ordered something Mycroft let her in. From the slight frown a week or so ago he could tell she’d registered the change in him, if not his relationship with Gregory. Of course, she’d said nothing. But she arrived, delivered whatever they’d ordered and departed without comment, leaving them once again to their own devices.

Until this morning.

Anthea pressed the doorbell, waiting on Mycroft to let her in; they were expecting groceries. When she entered, brisk and purposeful and empty handed, Mycroft tensed and looked automatically at Greg. The detective had noticed, of course, and knew what it meant.

They were free to go. Anthea read their minds and answered accordingly.

“Not yet,” Anthea said, “but soon. They fought and there was only one survivor on their side.”

“And ours?” Mycroft asked tensely.

“A few injuries, nothing life threatening,” she replied.

“The survivor?”

 Anthea looked exasperated, as though Mycroft interrupting her flow was the only reason she had not yet told him. “In our secure facility. Your brother and Doctor Watson are fine. We are awaiting DNA confirmation that the bodies are who we think they are. One day, two at the most.”

The silence rang through the kitchen at her succinct report.

“Thank you,” Mycroft said, his gaze returning to Greg. Anthea let herself out, or so Mycroft assumed; he was focussed on Greg, wondering what he was thinking.

“Gregory…” Mycroft began, then stopped. He had no idea what to say. What did he actually want? Looking at Greg, the answer was both simple and impossible. He wanted to stay here, exactly like this, with Gregory. As that was beyond the realm of even his power, Mycroft needed time to consider how he would approach this conversation. “Nothing. I’ll just…I think I need a run, actually.” Greg had nodded, a shadow of confusion across his face. Mycroft changed on autopilot, setting the treadmill to run without a program; he needed time to think. Running at a constant pace would allow his mind to work, and surely, then, he could come up with a solution.

Unfortunately, Greg came to find him before he could settle on an approach.

“Mycroft?” Greg’s voice came from the doorway. “You’ve been running a long time. Time to stop, do you think?” Mycroft glanced down at the display panel. He had been running for longer than usual. A quiet pang of surprise that Greg had noticed. Mycroft slowed down to a walk, not daring to look at Greg.

“So, tomorrow, then,” Greg said.

“Yes,” replied Mycroft. It was all wrong, Mycroft thought, tentative and awkward and not the easy conversation they had developed. “Back to the real world.” He had no idea yet how Gregory felt about it, but the treacherous part of his brain, the part that had held onto the idea of this time wasting holiday fling, murmured that Gregory probably was quite happy to be getting out of here.

“About that,” Greg said now, moving to stand in front of Mycroft. The height of the treadmill gave him the upper hand, but given that he wouldn’t be able to avoid Greg’s eyes, Mycroft still held disadvantage. Right now, he waited. “I said it a while ago, I won’t push you into a conversation you aren’t ready for. But we need to have some kind of talk, before I get whisked away in a mysterious black car tomorrow.” Tomorrow. The word cut through Mycroft, bringing reality crashing through him.

“I know,” Mycroft whispered. He opened his mouth, trying to form the words that stubbornly would not take shape. Helpless, he pressed his lips together, shutting down the treadmill and stepping carefully off. “I’ll be in the shower.”

It was the first time Greg had come to see him after his run without them ending up wrapped around each other.

It was the beginning of the end.

Mycroft, caught up in his head about how to speak to Gregory, spent several hours in his office, ostensibly preparing for his interview with the remaining member of the Tasman gang. In reality he was staring at the wall, visions of his time with Greg flickering past like an old movie. It was the longest time he and Gregory had spent in separate rooms since the bread dough incident. Much as one part of him wanted to stand up, find Gregory and hug him tight, he was terrified that Gregory might not be looking for the same.

At dinner time, they sat together, the conversation strained. Mycroft willed his mouth to move but nothing came out, and he ate mechanically, barely tasting the food. As he washed up afterwards, Greg disappeared into the sitting room. When the benches were clean, dishes put away, Mycroft hesitated, but the thought of sleeping alone with Greg still in the flat was impossible to consider. He took a deep breath and followed Greg into the room, watching as he copied the titles of books.

“What are you doing?” Mycroft asked quietly.

“I want to buy some of these. They were good,” Greg replied, gesturing to the pile. “Thanks for letting me read them.”

“You’re welcome,” Mycroft replied automatically. His eyes were locked on Greg’s now, willing him to speak first, to speak his mind and put Mycroft out of his misery. There must be something there, something Greg could read, because he put down his notebook and pencil and stood. Without a word, Greg walked to Mycroft, enveloping him in a hug. As his arms met around Mycroft’s back he sank into it, arms wrapping tight around Greg, gripping his shirt.

“I know,” Greg murmured into his hair, and Mycroft realised he was shaking. One of them was, at least, the racking motion making both bodies vibrate. “We’ll be okay, Mycroft. It’s okay.” Desperately, Mycroft reached up, bringing Greg’s mouth down for a kiss. It was a desperate kiss, hard and unforgiving, emotion pouring back and forth between them. Mycroft rose on his toes, trying to get closer; Greg’s arms tightened. In accord, Mycroft wrapped his legs around Greg’s hips as Greg’s hands lifted under his arse, supporting him as he clung to Greg. Mycroft felt them moving, as though Greg was walking somewhere; his senses were overwhelmed with Greg so when they fell, landing on a bed, he let out a yelp. Greg stilled at the sound, and they were looking at each other in the half darkness. Harsh breathing was the only sound; Mycroft had no words. He reached for Greg.

The night was hands and skin, kisses and caresses until they drifted into sleep, locked in each other’s arms.

Mycroft’s face was wet when he awoke. Tears, he realised. How mortifying. Something had roused him; he waited without moving until the noise came again.

A mobile phone was ringing. Frowning, Mycroft sat up, his mind racing. There was only one conclusion – Anthea had left it when she came yesterday. Tying his dressing gown, Mycroft slipped downstairs to find a generic phone sitting on the table in the entrance way. There was one voice message.

“A car will collect you and Detective Inspector Lestrade in one hour.” Anthea’s voice was emotionless as she relayed the message. Mycroft nodded. He took a deep breath. Time to wake Greg.

***

The Last Breakfast was a somber, tense affair – toast and coffee. They had spoken little since Mycroft had woken Greg; he could feel Greg’s impatience from the other side of the kitchen. Mycroft knew the frustration came from his own sense of integrity. He’d said he wouldn’t push, and he wouldn’t. Greg would not broach the subject, at least while they were here. It was clear that he wanted to discuss it; the idea of returning to normal life was also playing on his mind, if Mycroft read him correctly. It now seemed unthinkable to re-join the outside world, to allow other people and society to have a role in their lives. Mycroft knew it was the cabin fever talking; it would take only a matter of days for them to reacclimatise to living once again in the world.

And then what? That was the question plaguing him still. What would Gregory expect? Clearly they could not spend the same amount of time together as they had, but would he expect to move in? Or not? The idea that this was still a convenient distraction was fading, but it was tenacious, the whisper that taunted him in the dark hours when Gregory slumbered in his arms. Watching Gregory across the table, mindlessly flicking through a cookbook he’d read a dozen times without reading the recipes, Mycroft had a moment of breath-taking clarity. He wanted Gregory to sit across from him every morning, to be in his bed every night. In a rush, the realisation came to him that they needed to talk. Now.

“Gregory,” Mycroft breathed, a realisation more than anything. When enquiring eyes looked up to meet him, Greg froze, his gaze locked on Mycroft as though he knew this was the moment. A rush of certainty came over Mycroft that this was right. This moment, this decision. Gregory.

As Mycroft opened his mouth, the doorbell rang. Like a bad movie, they looked at the door, and then each other.

“Did you order anything?” Greg asked, the tension in his voice belying his knowledge of the answer.

“No.” Mycroft replied. Their eyes met again, and Mycroft felt the moment shift. Just as he’d known Gregory understood what he was going to say, they both knew who was at the door, and why.

Greg swallowed. “Me either.” Their eyes met again, and it was like telepathy. Mycroft stepped forward towards the door, but Greg caught his arm.

“Mycroft,” he said, and it was like a plea. _What were you going to say_ , his gaze begged. But the courage had shattered with the ring of the bell, and Mycroft could not speak. He shook his head, and Greg’s grip released slowly, disappointment on his face.

“Anthea,” Mycroft said into the intercom, pressing the button to allow the lift up. There was barely time to look back at Greg – sitting up, drinking the rest of his coffee, slipping back into professional mode. In his heart, Mycroft said goodbye.

As Anthea stepped out of the lift, followed by two other men, Mycroft gave her his practiced greeting smile.

“We have them,” she said without preamble. Turning to Greg she said, “Paulson will accompany you to your debrief, Detective Inspector. Your home has been swept for bugs and incendiary devices, and it is safe to return.”

“Um, thanks,” Greg replied.

“I took the liberty of stocking your kitchen,” Anthea added, surprising both Greg and Mycroft.

“Wow, great,” Greg said. He was speaking to Anthea but still looking at Mycroft. “Well, I guess I should pack?” It was a question, as though he wasn’t sure what was happening. Mycroft knew how he felt – he had no idea either. The abyss that seemed to have opened up between them at the arrival of their guests was enormous; the loneliness that Mycroft had always taken for comfort was now bitter and cold.

“If you haven’t yet. Your car will leave when you are ready,” Anthea said in a tone that meant, ‘as soon as possible’. She turned to Mycroft. “They’re waiting for you at your office, sir.”

Automatically, Mycroft nodded. “Give me a moment, if you would.”

Anthea nodded in return. “We will wait downstairs.”

When they’d left, Mycroft turned to look at Greg, but he was gone. Packing, he thought to himself, and the idea tugged on him in a strange way. Packing to leave. Mycroft climbed the stairs to the guest suite.

“Greg?” he asked tentatively. He was throwing clothes into his suitcase, haphazard and careless.

“Yes?” Greg replied.

“We never…” Mycroft trailed off. Greg hadn’t stopped, hadn’t turned around. He was avoiding Mycroft. The silence stretched out, punctuated only but the soft landings of Greg’s t-shirts.

“No, we never did.” Greg replied, and Mycroft was startled at the depth of emotion in those four words. “We never did, Mycroft.” There was no overt accusation there, but the tone of voice sent daggers through Mycroft. Greg’s voice carried his pain and confusion, and when he finally turned to look at Mycroft, face closed and arms crossed, he appeared lost.

“Gregory, I–”

“Don’t, Mycroft. It’s too late.” Mycroft’s heart plummeted at the finality of the words. His panic must have shown on his face, because Greg’s expression crumbled and he reached for Mycroft. The hug was fierce, and Greg spoke into Mycroft’s jacket, the words muffled with wool and emotion. “Not for us, I don’t mean that. I mean…I’m confused. And this is so sudden, and we haven’t talked. But I will call you.” He squeezed tighter again, Mycroft wondering if his ribs would break. He didn’t even care, as long as Gregory never let him go. “We have to talk about…this, us, whatever it is. I’ll miss you.” The last phrase was choked out, forced past the wellspring of emotion now pushing its way up Mycroft’s throat too.

“Gregory,” Mycroft whispered. They stood for another minute, before Greg took a deep breath.

“Let me know if you find any of my stuff.” He said, not really looking at Mycroft, stepping back and closing his case. “There’s probably bits everywhere, but I don’t have time…”

Mycroft nodded, shutting down his emotions. It was work. Just like work. “Of course. I’ll forward them to you.”

Another eternity and Greg whispered, “I’ll call you.” Five steps past a frozen Mycroft, and he was gone.

Staring at the empty room, Mycroft took a deep breath, ignoring the lingering scent of Gregory. Anthea was waiting. Britain was waiting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay. Clearly, there's a sequel. Actually I've planned this as the first of a trilogy (late night sugar does things to my brain, I'm telling you). So this is part 1 - what happened when they were stuck inside. Part 2 (Emancipation) is how they cope with the new situation. It's actively being written, but there will be a pause before those chapters start rolling out. I'll let you know on tumblr (bigblueboxat221b) or subscribe to be notified when Emancipation is published.
> 
> Thank you to everyone who commented and kudos and generally loved this story. I couldn't do it without you all. x


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